The Chief and the Rose
by Deep Forest Green
Summary: One winter's night, the Patron-Minette tries to kidnap Enjolras. He is saved by Éponine, and what begins as a chance encounter soon develops into a close friendship. But for their love to survive the barricade, they will need a little help from their friends. E/É; one-sided M/É and E/R. My first multi-chapter fic.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

New Year's Eve, 1831

Alexandre Enjolras took the long way home. He knew his friends were a bit upset about having a meeting on New Year's Eve, but he had made it up to them by allowing them all the wine and spirits they wanted. He had even imbibed a little himself, just to prove that he wasn't a killjoy. He hadn't seen most of his friends since Christmas, as several of them had gone home to their families in the South, and tonight they had all wished each other a happy Christmas as they drank and toasted one another's health. Enjolras knew the Amis couldn't afford to miss another week of meetings. Joly and Bossuet were starting to lose interest, and if they left, others would be sure to follow.

The snow was coming down in gentle drifts, settling in uneven patches on the gray cobblestone. As Enjolras heard the bells of Notre-Dame striking 11:00, he thought, _This is it. Next year, 1832, will be the year we overthrow the king for good._ He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and, looking around first to make sure no one was watching, was so frivolous as to catch a snowflake on his tongue. The air was clear and the night was beautiful, no moon and all stars. Enjolras turned the corner and passed the Gorbeau Hovel, on the very edge of town. Sometimes he missed the countryside, but not on nights like this. He could live in Paris for the rest of his life.

Suddenly Enjolras heard a rustling behind him. He turned back quickly, then decided it was probably nothing. He continued walking as if nothing had happened.

Two blocks later, Enjolras heard another rustling noise, louder this time. He was sure it had come from behind him. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his pistol, just in case. If anyone was following him, he hoped that they would see this gesture and think better of the idea. To throw them off, he began walking in the opposite direction of his building.

A quarter past eleven. Enjolras was now sure he was being followed. He had seen pieces of footprints in the falling snow behind him, definitely not his own. He drew his collar as high up around his face as he could, and lowered the brim of his hat, to obscure his face from recognition. It did not occur to him that he was lost. He had lived in Paris for nearly two years, and in the daylight he knew the city like the back of his hand. He was perfectly confident that he could find his way back home when he needed to.

Suddenly a gloved hand grabbed Enjolras' shoulder and pulled him into a narrow alley. Another gloved hand, belonging to the same man, clapped over his mouth in the same instant. "One noise and you're dead," whispered a gravelly voice.

"Walking on the edge of the street," another voice laughed drily. "Typical country boy mistake. Here's a tip, if you ever get out of this alive: always walk in the middle of the road where everyone can see you."

"Season's greetings to you too," said Enjolras once the gloved hand loosened its grip over his mouth. His heart was pounding, but he kept his cool. "May I ask what you gents want from me? If it's money, take this louis. It's all I have."

"Foolish boy," said the gloved man. "It's not your money we want, it's your friends'. We know who you are, you see. You're Alexandre Enjolras, law student and chapter leader of Les Amis de L'ABC. We've been following you for the last several weeks. And we think your bourgeois friends would pay a pretty penny to get you back. On the other hand," he chuckled evilly, "maybe the police would pay more."

"You won't turn me in to the police," said Enjolras, calling his bluff. "You're outlaws yourselves."

"We're robbers," said the laughing man. "Petty thieves. The police wouldn't waste their time with us. It's people like you they want. They know about these 'ABC' groups sprouting up all over the city, and they're willing to pay just about anyone and look the other way to keep from being overthrown."

"What's this? What have we here?" said a third man, pushing his way forward and reaching into Enjolras' pockets. "A pistol? My, my. Mighty apprehensive, aren't we, for a man of the people? Here, let me relieve you of your weapon. You won't be needing it anymore."

"You'll never get anything out of me," said Enjolras defiantly, "or my friends. We can't be bought or blackmailed. We're fighting so that people like you can have a brighter future. So if you kidnap me, you're only hurting yourselves."

"Let him go, papa," said a hoarse female voice from behind them. "He won't be of any use to you."

"Éponine, go away," said the man who had taken Enjolras' pistol. "I told you to stand watch at the corner."

Éponine. Why did that name sound so familiar? Enjolras was sure he had heard it before. He studied the girl's face in the dim lamplight. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, yet she seemed to have grit and maturity beyong her years. She reminded him of Gavroche, though he couldn't think why.

"I've had it with being your watchgirl," said Éponine. "You try to control me on the assumption that I want to live. But you've made my life so miserable that you've undermined your own purpose. Go ahead and kill me, I don't care. Just leave that boy alone."

"You ungrateful wench," said Éponine's father angrily. "I rob bourgeois know-nothings day and night to put food on the table for you and your sister, and this is the thanks I get? If you can't make yourself useful, then get out of the way."

While Éponine's father made this speech, Enjolras noticed that his pistol had somehow made its way into Éponine's hand. She fired a warning shot, and the bullet ricocheted off the brick wall of the alleyway.

"Run!" she shouted to Enjolras.

What ensued was complete chaos. The gang members all chased Éponine, while the man with the gloved hands tackled Enjolras and tried to hold him down. Enjolras broke free with a nimble kick in the right spot, but he refused to run away while Éponine was still in danger. He darted back into the fray, pushing and shoving until he made his way to Éponine. She was skillfully avoiding the gangsters by climbing the brick wall, digging in with her nails and toes. But the youngest, a black-haired fellow with pearly white teeth, was swiftly catching up to her. Tall and thin as he was, he reached for her ankle.

A blow in the stomach from Enjolras sent this man crashing into the wall, doubling over and bleeding in pain. Enjolras took Éponine's hand so he wouldn't lose her again. But now they were cornered.

"We make a break for it on three," he whispered between gritted teeth. "One, two- "

If Enjolras had been looking at Éponine's face, he would have been able to see that this was not a good plan. But he wasn't, so he didn't. Holding tight to her wrist, he pushed his way through the barricade of robbers and murderers who stood between him and freedom. His only thought was that he must keep holding on to Éponine no matter what. She had already intrigued him so much tonight. He longed to know why she was standing up for him, why she thought that her life was no longer worth living, and if there was anything he could do to help her.

Unfortunately, holding each other's hands meant that Éponine and Enjolras only had half as much firepower. They were easily trapped in the large, bulky bodies of the Patron-Minette, like fish being caught in a net and pulled onto the deck where they could not longer breathe. Desperately, Éponine spat in the face of the gloved man, and Enjolras bit the nose of the man with the ominous laugh. But it made no difference. They were cornered, for real this time.

Just when all hope seemed lost, two young men arrived at the opening of the alley. They were accompanied by a police captain and four gendarmes. One of the gendarmes seemed quite old to Enjolras, perhaps fifty or even sixty. His white hair was wispy and striking beneath the blue and red cap.

"We heard a gunshot and came to get the police as quickly as we could," said one of the young men, out of breath. "Is everyone all right?"

The black-haired robber stepped forward, smearing the blood on his face in a gesture that was barely noticeacle. "Oh, thank God, it's the police," he said. "This young man, he is my sister's beau, but he beats her horribly, as you can see. She is terrified to leave him. He pretends to be a bourgeois to impress her, but it's all a lie. Our father and I, we knew we had to protect dear 'Ponine. So we got together, in secret, of course, to plan to take her away from Paris, and her uncle and godfather, they offered to let her stay with some old friends. But monsieur found us out and started attacking us, and for some reason 'Ponine leaped to his defense- it's just horrible." He was crying now, his tears spreading the blood all over his cheeks.

There was a tense silence. Then the white-haired gendarme turned to the captain and said, "Monsieur, do you believe this tale?"

The captain stared at him. "I would certainly like to hear what the faux-bourgeois has to say for himself," he said coldly.

"You're a poor liar, monsieur," said the white-haired man, softly but firmly, turning to the black-haired one. "If you are telling the truth, then why did you not go to the police when you found out about monsieur's treatment of your sister? It's obvious that the blond gentleman is the victim here and not the assailant. Why would one man take on five, especially in a dimly-lit alley like this late at night? I'm telling you, I've seen too many cases like this not to know who is guilty and who is innocent. You have before you a gang, and a quite notorious one at that. Let the bourgeois and the girl go and take in the rest."

Unfortunately, two of the "rest" had just disappeared into the shadows behind them, the ones known to Éponine but not to Enjolras as Babet and Claquesous. They knew a way to get out of the alley and back to the Gorbeau Hovel without being detected. Guelemer was too big to conceal himself, and Jondrette and Montparnasse had to stand their ground because the police had already seen them.

"Monsieur," said Éponine, turning to Enjolras, "tell them you didn't do anything wrong."

"I was robbed," said Enjolras truthfully. "I was walking home, miding my own business, when these peasant scum suddenly jumped out at me and demanded my purse. I had little to give them, only a louis d'or. But I think it's quite a shame that a citizen cannnot even walk down the street on New Year's Eve without being pickpocketed in a most vicious manner."

"All right," said the captain, turning first to the white-haired man and then to Enjolras. "Don't worry, I believe you. Fauchelevent here has always been a fine judge of character. My deepest apologies, monsieur, for suspecting you." He turned to his men. "Let's arrest the lot."

Enjolras watched in horror as the policemen arrested everyone there, including Éponine. In spite of himself, he was relieved that the police had not suspected him of being an Ami de L'Abaissé, and that the circumstances had not allowed for the black-haired man to accuse him of that particular crime. As the bells struck midnight and he arrived home, he did not think he would ever see his savior again.

* * *

(A/N: Thanks for reading! I thought about giving Éponine a more low-class dialect, but decided against it because it was too distracting, so you can just imagine her talking like Eliza Doolittle if you want.

By the way, Valjean will be making a later appearance in this fic, but not for a while. The problem with a lot of Enjonine fanfic is that there either isn't enough Valjean or no Valjean at all. But the Brick is mainly about Valjean, so why do so many fics exclude him?

And no, the police captain isn't Javert, he's just some random police captain. Because wouldn't Javert recognize Valjean if they were in the same patrol unit?

Also, don't worry, Éponine won't be in jail for long.)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hi, author here. So I'm not gonna lie, I was pretty disappointed that I didn't get any reviews for my last chapter. Follows/favorites are wonderful, but one is silver and the other gold. So just take a moment, close your eyes, think about how good it feels when you get a review in you inbox, and spread the love around. Please read and review this chapter, and then go back if you haven't already and r/r chapter one. Because this chapter is meaningless without it. Meaningless.

By the way, I actually finished this chapter yesterday, but I absolutely refuse to post more than one chapter per day, no matter how much I want to. I am very OCD about editing and have to read my chapters over several times before I am confident enough that they are free of technical errors to post them. Or maybe I just like to drag it out for as long as possible, relishing the way you squirm and beg for more...*mwahaha*...

Oh, and by the way, I'm probably not going to post an image to go with this. Or any of my stories. Because I'm lazy.

* * *

New Year's Day, 1832

"Éponine Jondrette, you have a visitor."

Éponine rubbed her eyes. She was groggy even though she hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. She guessed it was probably about nine in the morning. She looked out through the bars of her cell to see a familiar young face. To her digust and horror, it was the man she had saved the night before. What did he want with her? It was his fault that she had gone to prison. Why hadn't he stood up for her, after what she had done, filthy bourgeois coward? Just like the lot of them. Well, except for Marius, of course. Oh, why couldn't he have come to visit her instead? This man was probably just going to laugh in her face at how stupid she had been for trusting him.

"I came as soon as I could," said the man. "Not an ideal start to the New Year, I know. But don't worry, I'm here to bail you out. You won't ever have to live with that awful father of yours in that horrid tenement building again. I've found a place for you to live until you get back on your feet."

"Go away," Éponine hissed. "I don't want your pity. You let them take me away, you selfish bastard, I hate you!" She spat in his face, just as she had spat in Babet's the night before, which was a challenge because her mouth was dry as sawdust.

Enjolras wiped the saliva from his face. He never could understand the pride in street gamins like Gavroche and Éponine. He supposed it was all they had, their only weapon. He couldn't blame her for hating him right now. He hated himself for allowing her to spend even a night in jail. Even half a night, even a few hours. He hated himself for every minute and second that he had spent eating breakfast and riding a cab that morning, while Éponine was rotting in jail.

"'Parnasse," she whispered, looking down at the floor. "Babet. Claquesous. Guelemer. Brujon. Papa." She was utterly incoherent to Enjolras, but he sensed in her tone a mixture of sadness, fear, resignation, and relief.

"Come," said Enjolras, taking her hand. "Your sister is waiting for you."

"Azelma," said Éponine, her eyes lifting and brightening. So this man had gone to the trouble of fetching Azelma? Maybe she could trust him after all.

The guard turned his key in the lock and opened the cell door. "For now I managed to persuade the city officials that you were merely an accomplice, and an unwilling one at that. Of course, I would have liked to tell them the whole story, of how you saved my life, but I sensed that they wouldn't believe me. In any case, with my testimony, I doubt you'll have to stand trial. The police do tend to look the other way when a bourgeois sides with the accused." He laughed sardonically. "By the way, I don't believe I properly introduced myself last night. My name is Alexandre Enjolras. I am a law student at the university. Your neighbor, Marius Pontmercy, is an acquaintance of mine."

"That's- wonderful," said Éponine, not knowing what to say. Maybe Enjolras could put in a good word for her to Marius. Suddenly she realized that he looked exhausted, and was holding a briefcase. He probably hadn't gotten a wink of sleep either. He had been up all night pleading her case! He was even wearing the same clothes as the night before.

They met Azelma outside the door. With her was a middle-aged fat woman whom she had never seen before. She looked kindly, like a sweeter version of her mother. She smiled at Éponine and extended a hand.

"Mademoiselle, this is Madame Hucheloup. She is a friend of mine and the proprietress of the Café Musain. She is in need of waitresses and cooks and has been so kind as to offer you room and board in exchange for your work. Do you accept her offer?"

"Only- only if Azelma can do it with me," said Éponine, looking at her little sister, the one person on the face of the earth whom she completely loved and trusted. And maybe, just maybe- it occurred to her as an afterthought- Marius would be there!

Azelma smiled. "I've already accepted," she said.

* * *

"Mes amis," said Enjolras, entering the Musain with Éponine on his arm, "it is my great honor to introduce all of you to Éponine Jondrette. This brave girl saved my life last night, when I was attacked by a vicious gang that tried to rob me and hold me for ransom. Just when it looked as though I were a goner, Éponine jumped into the fray, completely disregarding her own safety, and fired a warning shot. If mademoiselle had not been there, I surely would not have stood a chance against those thugs." Enjolras neglected to mention the detail of the police arrival on the scene, as it would only make his friends worry that he was under suspicion when, really, there was no cause for alarm. "Some of you may know Éponine as Pontmercy's next-door neighbor in the Gorbeau tenement. You will be seeing a lot more of her from now on, as she and her sister Azelma have been offered employment at the café by Madame Hucheloup." Azelma held her sister's hand and waved shyly at the students.

"Monsieur Enjolras is far too modest. Even after I had saved him, he risked himself by coming back for me when I was in danger. So really, we saved each other." Éponine huddled closer to Enjolras, hoping that seeing her on the arm of another man- not Montparnasse, but a gentleman, one of his own- would cause Marius to grow jealous and notice her. But while she tried desperately to make fleeting eye contact with him, Marius had his eyes locked on Enjolras above her. Probably lost in daydreams about his Ursule, she thought bitterly, waiting for the meeting to be over so he could go home and write letters to _her_. At first she had thought that Marius' infatuation with the petit-bourgeoisie had been only a passing fancy, but the longer it went on, the more convinced she became that he was not going to give it up. Marius could be a remarkably stubborn man. It was one of the things she loved about him. Well, if he could be stubborn, she resolved that she could be twice as stubborn as him. If there was one thing her mother's romance novels had taught her, it was that one did not stop loving simply because that love was unrequited. But even as she pined for Marius, she could not help feeling grateful to Enjolras for giving her the credit for saving the day, even if it was, perhaps, undeserved. None of the men she had ever known, rich or poor, had ever given any woman credit for something in that department, least of all to Éponine, who was barely more than a child. It wasn't that she had never done anything of that nature- it just never got acknowledged. But this time was different, because her deed had actually been good, even heroic. Yes, that was the word; she hardly dared apply it to herself. But there it was- heroic. And it felt right.

"Hear, hear!" shouted the student whom Enjolras had introduced as Combeferre, raising a glass of wine and bringing Éponine back to reality. "A toast to Éponine Jondrette, for saving the revolution!"

Éponine blushed. She wanted to contradict him, to confess that she hadn't even known that Enjolras was a revolutionary. But it felt so good to have friends, legitimate friends, and to be appreciated for something other than her menial skills. So she decided that she would continue to lie, to pretend that she knew why she had saved him. Surely Marius couldn't continue to prefer the specter over the hero girl forever. At the same time, unbeknownst to her, Enjolras wanted to chastise Combeferre for implying that his fate could determine the success or failure of the revolution. After all, Enjolras was just one man, the leader of one of many chapters of students trying to change the world. He did not realize that his friends regarded him as highly as they did Jefferson and Robespierre, and that any one of them would have defended him with his life.

"Tell us the whole story!" shouted Marius' sometimes-roommate- Courfeyrac?- as he reached for Éponine's arm, once the ruckus had died down a bit.

"There's not much to tell," said Éponine, quite unaccustomed to speaking in public. She still had the nagging fear that at any minute, all these men were going to draw their wallets and demand that she take off her dress. She had to keep reminding herself that these were gentlemen, and that even if they wanted to sleep with her, they had reputations to uphold. "M'sieur Enjolras was walking down the street, and my p- one of the gangsters told me to keep watch by the corner. But I snuck back into the alley and fired a warning shot with M'sieur Enjolras' pistol. The police came after a few minutes to break things up, so they were the real heroes, not me."

"Nonsense. You risked your life," said a charming voice, and with overwhelming ecstasy Éponine realized that it was Marius. "Really, 'Ponine, I can't thank you enough for what you did. None of us can. We love our friend very much, and we would be lost without him." The others nodded enthusiatically.

"All right, Pontmercy, that's enough," said Enjolras, his cheeks growing visibly red. "Now, let's all compare notes on the neighborhoods that will need reinforcements."

As Éponine felt herself being pushed out of the room by the masculine talk, Madame Hucheloup beckoned for her and Azelma to follow her into the back room. Azelma looked at her with poorly concealed jealousy for having stolen all her thunder. Éponine ignored her and managed to sneak one more glance at Marius before she left the room.

* * *

"Do you two have any experience working in cafés or taverns?" asked Madame Hucheloup, leading the sisters into the kitchen.

"No, madame," said Azelma cautiously. "We're only fourteen and fifteen; we don't have any employment experience at all." Éponine was thankful that Azelma knew better than to mention their work as lookouts and couriers for their father. She had almost slipped up once herself, just a few minutes ago, and she feared that they would lose this opportunity if Madame Hucheloup found out the truth. Anyway, the errands they did for the Patron-Minette weren't a job, they were slavery. But that chapter of her life was over now, thanks to Enjolras.

"Well, no worries. I didn't expect you to." She shuffled her overweight body into the space between two cupboards and reached for a serving spoon. "It's quite easy, really. It won't take long for you to learn the ropes. Most nights are pretty slow around here, and there isn't much work to be done. I may only need one of you for those nights, so you can take turns being on duty. But on busy nights like tonight- those young men, I tell you, they're a riot. They'll give you so many orders, you'd better be able to write fast." She stopped suddenly and turned to the girls in concern. "You can write, can't you?"

"A little," Azelma said. "But we have good memories. We have to."

"I can," Éponine said proudly. "I learned how as a little girl. Want to see?"

"No thank you," said Madame Hucheloup. "It sounds like you'll both need to practice writing as quickly as you can. Unless your memories are as good as your sister claims."

"We'll practice," said Éponine nervously, nudging her sister. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Marius and his friends by forgetting their orders, not when she was so close to winning his respect.

"Very well," said Madame Hucheloup. "I think that's a wise choice. Now, on to the cooking. Do you two ever cook at home?"

"We don't really have a stove," said Azelma. "Sometimes we roast a chicken over the fire, when we can get one. But mostly we just eat what we can get and try to ignore the taste."

Madame Hucheloup clicked her tongue. "You poor dears," she said. "Well, no problem. I'll show you how to roll and bake bread into the most beautiful loaf you ever saw." She poured some ground vegetables in a bowl and began to stir soup. "How about wine and spirits? Surely you must have some experience with those."

Éponine nodded. "With drinking them, not serving them."

"Ah," said the proprietress. "Surely you must know that the patrons of the Café Musain are gentlemen and, as such, are very particular about their wine. Let me show you our liquor cupboard. I have it very well organized. We have French wine, of course, Italian, Andalusian, over here some Irish whiskey, a glass of vodka- and if you think this is a lot, there's a lot more where this came from downstairs in the wine vault. Would you like me to give you a tour?"

"Maybe another day," said Éponine, yawning dramatically. "I'm quite tired."

"Of course," said Madame Hucheloup sympathetically, taking the lantern by the door and showing them the staircase that led to the living quarters. "You've had a long day. Now, let me show you to your bedchamber. This used to be my husband's office, and when he died I converted it into a guest bedroom, but I never have any guests. I'm just a silly old woman, I suppose, but now this room can finally be put to some practical use." She stopped at the open door. "Here, I hope this will be all right."

It was more than all right for Éponine and Azelma. It was the best room they had ever slept in since living in Montfermeil. They had one straw mattress to share and a small, dark window covered in cobwebs. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and the girls gravitated towards it immediately, warming their chilled hands and faces with urgency. Madame Hucheloup resisted the urge to laugh at their charmingly childish ways.

"You understand, children," she said seriously, approaching them, "I can't afford to pay you. I don't know if Monsieur Enjolras has told you, but I can give you food, shelter, and other basic necessities, that's it. I do not want you to feel that I am exploiting you in any way. You are both free, of course, to leave whenever you wish. I will give you references and chip in as much as I can for your travel accomodations. This is not meant to be a long-term employment offer, only until you can find a more stable situation elsewhere. Do you both still want to do this?"

The girls nodded simultaneously. They would not even consider rejecting Madame Hucheloup's generous offer. After all, without it, they would both be on the streets, and they did not want to be ungrateful towards Enjolras for the strings he must have pulled to give them this opportunity to better themselves.

"Very well then," said Madame Hucheloup with a smile. "Good night, girls."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Did you notice the Valjean/Fantine parallels in the first part? Yeah, I totally ship them. One of these days I'm going to write a JVJ/F serial, because there isn't enough Valtine out there. Pretty sad, considering how close they came in the Brick to getting married and living happily ever after. (*sniff* they could have had it all...)

Please review as you would have others review unto you- I probably won't change any plot points based on suggestions I get, since I have this story pretty well planned out, which is very rare for me, but go ahead and ask if you want. I may make a few small changes, but rest assured, I do know where this is going. By the way, Valjean will be coming back around Chapter 6 or 7. This is not going to be a super-long fic- 12 or 13 chapters, 15/16 at most. I'm trying to keep all the chapters roughly the same length. This one was a bit longer than I intended, but c'est la vie.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Please-pretty-please review! Thanks for all the support I've been getting- and warning you in advance, this is kind of a filler chapter, so not much is going to happen. I should be all firm, like "I won't post any more chapters until you review my stuff", but I think you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and besides, I wouldn't be able to withhold my chapters because I love posting them so much. So here is the third installment of The Chief and the Rose, with no strings attached.

* * *

January 15, 1832

"Marius, don't tell me you didn't know that girl friend of yours was a total toughie," said Courfeyrac teasingly. "And she ain't bad looking either."

"I don't even think about her that way," said Marius, blushing angrily. "Why would you even say such a thing? You know my heart belongs to the Lark."

"Well, it was hard to see at first, but she's gotten cleaned up since she started working here. Most of her bruises have healed by now, and it might be my imagination, but I think she's starting to put on a few. If things keep going like this, she'll grow up into a healthy young woman. But if you don't want her- "

"Courf, stop it," said Marius with growing irritation. "She was my neighbor, all right? Her father treated her horribly. It's not funny, the way you size her up like that like one of your- " he blushed severely- "burlesque girls."

"I don't stand a chance with her," said Courfeyrac, taking a swig of wine. "It's you she's after. And is it just me, or have you started coming to the café more regularly since she started working here?"

Marius ignored the teasing as best he could, but he stared at Courfeyrac sharply when he made that implication. "I- I always thought she had more of an eye for Enjolras," he stuttered, desperate to direct Éponine's desire anywhere away from himself.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Courfeyrac with a chuckle. "You know Enjolras is about as likely to be interested in women as you are to be interested in reinstating Louis XVI."

"That's not what I said," Marius insisted. "I said _she_ has feelings for _him_. I think."

"They've known each other for two weeks," said Courfeyrac. "Their meeting was a fluke. Besides, Enjolras is way too busy with the cause and 'Ponine is too busy with her new job. Stop seeing feelings where there aren't any, Marius. That's always been your problem."

* * *

Éponine and Azelma were very much liking their new jobs at the Café Musain. The students gave generous tips to them, especially Éponine. To her simultaneous relief and disappointment, her hero status never really went away. Even Feuilly, whom she had learned made only three francs a day, stretched his earnings as far as he could to give Éponine an extra sou. Most of the men became like brothers to her, and she did not think any of them were nearly as attractive as Marius. Well, there was Enjolras, of course, but that was a different kind of attractiveness, an ethereal, feminine beauty that reminded her uncomfortably of Montparnasse. Courfeyrac was quite average-looking, but his confidence and charisma made him seem, sometimes, almost on a level with Marius. Éponine loved the fact that she could now think about men's attractiveness objectively, and gradually her fear of being bought for sex diminished until it was completely gone.

After work, Azelma teased Éponine about Marius, and Éponine teased Azelma about which of the other boys she found the most attractive. Azelma had never regarded Marius as anything other than a neighbor and a friend, and she didn't quite understand what Éponine saw in him, so Éponine had never worried about Azelma stealing her man. Truthfully, Azelma was still too young and innocent to develop romantic longing the way her big sister had, but on some level she was attracted to all of them. Feuilly and Jehan were her particular favorites, but something in her knew better than to flirt with Jehan. During these late-night boy talks, by an unspoken agreement, the name Montparnasse never came up. It was as if he had died or gone off to some faraway land from which he would never return. Sadly, this was not the case.

At first, the girls occupied their spare time by fixing up their room. They brushed away the cobwebs, dusted the floor, washed the grime clinging to the window, polished the furniture, and in less than a week the small, neglected chamber became a viable living space. Éponine wondered if their old room in the Gorbeau hovel could be made to look as comfortable as this one. Somehow she doubted it.

Despite her initial apprehensions, Madame Hucheloup found plenty for the girls to do. Once they had mastered the essential arts of bread-baking, cake-decorating, meat-roasting, salad-tossing, and wine-selecting, most of their "leisure" time was occupied with chores. She also mended their dresses and shoes to make them presentable to their customers. The girls learned to love and respect Madame Hucheloup. They found her mannerisms endearing. They always laughed when she got flustered over the tiniest thing, and waddled about the room like an overweight duck that had lost its way. Under her roof, the two sisters were closer than they had ever been. Men served as a bridge that united them, not as a rift that divided them. They had never really dared to talk about the opposite sex before, but somehow, living under the loving care of Madame Hucheloup made it all seem all right. At one point, Madame Hucheloup, overcome with emotion, embraced the two girls and said, "You two are like the daughters I never had." Éponine had the traitorous thought that this was what her mother would become like if her father died. Suddenly she missed her mother greatly, and longed to run into her arms, to console her, all alone in that horrid apartment in that ghastly hovel.

It was Azelma who had the privilege of making weekly visits to Madame Jondrette. To protect their new friends, Azelma let her mother believe that Éponine was still in jail. Every week, Éponine would write a letter to her mother, and every week, Azelma would bring back a tear-drenched reply, imploring to know when her eldest daughter would be coming home.

"We have to tell her the truth eventually," said Azelma one day.

"I know," said Éponine, looking down at her shoes.

"She won't believe that you've been in jail for six months and that the guards are still refusing to let her visit you."

"We'll tell her when the revolution is over," said Éponine.

"That could take another year," said Azelma.

"Better that than endanger our friends."

Madame Jondrette was not above asking Azelma for financial support. Since Madame Hucheloup provided everything for the Jondrette sisters, Azelma found that she could usually spare enough to pitch in for the rent. Madame Jondrette complained constantly that she was so lonely in that frigid room all by herself and that she would go crazy if she did not see Éponine's face. Judging by her letters, she already was crazy.

* * *

Without really realizing it, the Jondrette girls had been inundated with talk of revolution. They started counting down to some imaginary day in the near future when barricades would rise all over the city. Éponine knew what barricades were and what they meant. She had seen them before, in July 1830, albeit from a distance. They were part furniture and part myth, held together by some elusive force of nature catalyzed by the masculine smells of alcohol and gunsmoke and finished with an invisible mortar. An omnibus here, a shadow there, something dark and mysterious that a street gamine could never fully understand. Her father had told her that barricades were built by bourgeois students who were foolish enough to think they could change the way things worked, and that anyone who died there was ripe for the picking by "smart folks like us". Éponine didn't quite believe him and argued with him a little bit, but at the same time a nagging voice in her head told her that he was probably right.

Her first triumph over her father was when the revolution of 1830 succeeded. Even though she didn't know what it meant, that the king had been overthrown, she still rubbed it in her father's face. What did her father know, anyway? He was just an old con man who couldn't even pay off his petty debts to keep their inn. When she said that, he had slapped her hard. The bruise across her face had taken several days to heal, but it was worth it.

Now, in 1832, Éponine was unclear as to why the students were building a barricade so soon after the last one. Due to the way Marius talked, she suspected it had something to do with Bonaparte. It did not occur to her to question why the others never spoke glowingly about the Emperor the way Marius did. Enjolras, in particular, seemed to recoil in disgust whenever Marius mentioned "the fat Corsican". Éponine wanted to ask him why he always pronounced his surname "Buonaparte" and why he seemed to alienate Marius from political discussions. She was offended by his scornful attitude, both as the daughter of a professed Bonapartist hero and as the (prospective) future daughter-in-law of another one. But every day Enjolras seemed less and less approachable.

In addition to Enjolras' political agitations, Éponine had the growing feeling that her little escapade with the Patron-Minette on New Year's Eve had made Marius afraid of her, not more attracted to her. He always seemed a bit intimidated whenever he handed her a tip, as if he was wondering what other dangerous tricks she had up her sleeve.

_Of course he's intimidated by me,_ thought Éponine bitterly._ He's a baron, and baron types like their women passive and placating. Like that Ursule. He's never even talked to her, but he knows she loves him back because she's rich and he can just will her to love him. Rich boys have passive mothers and passive sisters and passive nannies, so they can't imagine women being any other way._

But Enjolras was different. Éponine did not sense it, but with the increased presence of so many young men, her affection for Marius was gradually starting to wane. Enjolras did not talk to Éponine in public any more than his friends did, but he made a point of being especially kind to her, and sometimes he took her aside after meetings to answer questions that she had about the cause. Enjolras seemed happier every week; his recruitment was growing. Éponine was happy that Enjolras was happy.

Thus passed the winter months of 1832. One day, Éponine stopped Enjolras after a meeting and asked him to explain to her what a republic was. He told her that he didn't have nearly the time to explain, but that soon he would find a spare hour or two in which to explain it to her. Eventually the weather warmed up, and it became suitable for them to take regular walks together outside. Spring had sprung.

* * *

A/N: So there it is! Isn't Enjolras just better than Marius in every way? Sorry, I know this chapter was kind of dull, but at least it was short. And I tried to liven it up with some Courfeyrac/Marius lighthearted conversation at the beginning. It's all uphill from here, I promise. The next chapter is the one I'm really proud of, it's kind of the whole reason for me writing this fic. So don't give up! Don't stop believing, hold on to that feeling...


	4. I Walk With Him Till Morning

A/N: Here it is- my precious! Sorry, this chapter is pretty long- I actually pre-wrote this as a separate thing and lost part of it, so I copied down the part I didn't lose and just kind of fudged the rest. See if you can spot the lines of dialogue that were blatantly ripped off from the musical! Hint: They're both said by Enjolras. Not a lot of plot in this one, just ideological angst and E/É bonding. And remember, I can't read your minds, so if you like it, tell me in the reviews. And if you don't like it...well, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything. Just kidding. Go ahead and tear me apart. Okay, not really.

* * *

**I Walk With Him Till Morning**

March 28, 1832- evening

"M'sieur Enjolras, I don't understand. Why does M'sieur Marius hang around if he's a Bonapartist and you're all repub- What's the difference between a Bonapartist and a republican, anyway?" Her questions jumbled together, several of them having piled up from listening to conversations in the streets and at the Musain over the past few months.

"I can't answer the first part of that, but I can answer the second. A Buonapartist is someone who wants France to remain an empire as it did under Napoleon, as you must have supposed. They favor a strong military and heavy taxation. There are two types of Buonapartists, conservative and liberal. Monsieur Pontmercy, fortunately, is of the latter variety; he differentiates the Empire from the pre-1789 monarchy, whereas republicans such as myself differentiate the Empire from the First Republic, which was installed briefly during the Revolution but fell apart during the Terror of '93. I have hope, however, that Marius will overcome his Buonapartist foolishness and see the rightness of our cause. He is an intelligent man, he cares deeply about the poor, and were it not for the question of his deceased father, he might well be as devoted a republican as any of the other Amis."

"But what's wrong with an empire?" asked Éponine, utterly confused by Enjolras' long-winded reply to her simple question. "I mean, you always talk about France spreading freedom around the world, and if you've got an empire- "

"Because a nation cannot simultaneously be an empire and a republic," said Enjolras, as if it were the most apparent thing in the world. "A republic must first and foremost be free, and treat all its citizens equally. An empire, by contrast, treats its citizens as subjects and divides them into more and less privileged categories based on their birth and rank. It is essentially a monarchy with the additional goal of conquering other provinces for the sake of glory and profit. I do believe that freedom will emanate from France one day, but it must be spread by example, not by force. You have heard Feuilly speak; you know how important it is that every nation be recognized by its fellow nation-states. Nationhood is essential to the identity of the individual as well as that of the people as a whole." He would have gone on talking, but he saw the glazed look in Éponine's eyes and made his tone more lighthearted. "You ask good questions, 'Ponine. Our meetings have rubbed off on you, and you are starting to sound like a real student of history. Are you regretting having asked me to explain politics to you yet?"

"Oh no, m'sieur, this is all very interesting. It's just- my father always told me about the glory of France under the Emperor, and how everyone felt this sense of community and purpose and pride in their country, and I don't understand how you could see that as a bad thing."

"None of those things are inherently bad, but they are all too often manipulated in order to further an extremist agenda. Napoleon, he wasn't even French, he was ethnically Italian. He didn't care about the masses, he was in it for the power and saw politics as a game to be won. And it just makes me sick that he sent thousands of our young men to their deaths in order to further his own ambition." Éponine heard a faint choking noise, and it appeared as though Enjolras was holding back tears.

"M'sieur Marius would never condone that," said Éponine, trying to comfort him and defend Marius at the same time. "You know, his father was almost killed at Waterloo, but my father saved his life. I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted his father to be in constant danger like that, if he could have stopped it."

Enjolras laughed and rolled his eyes. "I know that story, 'Ponine. Marius has only told me about twenty times."

"Well, it's a good thing he feels comfortable telling _you_ his life story," said Éponine bitterly. "He doesn't tell _me_ anything. I guess it's 'cause I'm just a girl, and a street urchin, and he just doesn't respect our type enough to open up to them."

"Éponine, don't say such things. I happen to know for a fact that Monsieur Pontmercy respects you very much."

"Does he?" she said flatly.

She had been happy until he brought up Marius. Inevitably- whenever they were in doubt as to their next subject of conversation, it always turned to the boy who was their mutual friend. As long as they talked about him only within the context of politics, he was a safe subject. But it was all too easy for politics to spill into their personal lives, and once that threshold was crossed, there was no turning back.**  
**

"You're in love with him," Enjolras said softly.

Éponine nodded, wiping a tear from her eye.

"Have you told him?"

She shook her head.

"So he doesn't know?"

"He has no idea," said Éponine, her voice hollow.

"Well, being most uninterested in romance myself, I find it a useful instinct to be able to discern when people are infatuated with one another. You, ma chérie, are not very subtle." He quickened his step, and Éponine felt a strange pang of disappointment that he was not interested in romance. She told herself that it was because no one was uninterested in romance; anyone who claimed otherwise was either lying or in denial.

"I wish I could tell you to pour your heart out to him. The world would be a much happier place if everyone said exactly what they were thinking. But in all good conscience, I feel compelled to ask you to remain silent. In an ideal world, I would be rooting for love to conquer all, for the street gamine to marry the baron and escape her miserable lot in life. But as it is, Marius is distracted enough without another girl declaring her love for him. You know all about Mademoiselle F., I assume."

"Yes," said Éponine sadly. "I was the one who found her for him."

"Now, why on earth would you do that?" asked Enjolras. "Why would you bury the blade deeper in your own heart? That doesn't sound like the Éponine I know. You know, you are under no obligation to Monsieur Pontmercy, you are not his servant. So why do this?"

"He paid me," said Éponine. Her tone was practically nonexistent.

"I don't know who you are anymore," said Enjolras with a wild shrug. "It used to be that you were far too proud to accept money from bourgeois, and I thought this job took care of all your financial needs. Is there something I'm missing?"

"I just want him to be happy," said Éponine, terrified that Enjolras was becoming angry with her. "I've seen the way his face lights up whenever he talks about her. I know he couldn't be happy with me. He deserves to be with one of his own kind."

"Do not confuse selflessness with senselessness," Enjolras intoned. "It is one thing to give one's life so that others may have bread, but quite another to give one's heart that another may have love. Bread is a necessity; love is not. One is charity; the other is the desperate act of someone who has given up on herself. Don't give up on yourself, Éponine. There are many other young men out there who would consider you a worthy mate regardless of your social status."

Éponine looked up at him incredulously. Was he saying that he, or one of his friends besides Marius, had a design on her? "M'sieur Enjolras," she said, trying to break the tension, "is it true that some people go their whole lives without ever becoming interested in romance?"

"In my case, I think that were I to become interested in romance, it would have happened by now. However, you make the mistake of assuming that because I am not interested in romance, I must not be interested in love."

"Do you have a love, then?" asked Éponine, confused.

"Oh, yes."

"Where is she?"

"Right under our feet."

Éponine looked at the ground beneath her worn-out shoes and saw only mud and cobblestone. Her eyes widened in horror. "You mean, she's dead? Mon dieu, Enjolras, I am so sorry. I thought you were uninterested in women, but I did not realize it is only out of loyalty to your late beloved- "

Enjolras burst out laughing, and Éponine was so surprised that she literally jumped up. "No, she is not dead. It may appear that way, but she is merely asleep. Soon she shall be awoken."

"Is this a riddle?" asked Éponine, squinting her eyes quizzically. "I'm no good at riddles. I give up."

"It is Patria," said Enjolras.

"Patria? I don't know of anyone by that name. Is she wealthy?"

"In the things that matter, yes, she is quite wealthy."

"What do you mean?" Éponine wrinkled her brow. "What are the 'things that matter'...?"

"Oh, hope, courage, determination, great minds, the will to be free..."

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand."

"Éponine, 'Patria' is the Latin word for 'fatherland'. Forgive me, I know your education has been spotty at best..."

"So your love is France?"

"That's right." A chilly breeze blew in his face, and he wiped a strand of hair away from his eyes. "But we must not be closed-minded. If France is our fatherland, then so is Europe, and the Western hemisphere, and the entire world. Someday the whole planet will be united under a glorious reign of freedom, but it must begin in France."

"Still," said Éponine, quite overwhelmed by this idealistic speech, "I should have been able to piece 'Patria' together. I mean, it's just like 'patrie'. And really, what kind of girl would have a name like Patria?"

"A very unfortunate one," Enjolras said. His tone was so dry, Éponine couldn't tell if it was a joke or not. Perhaps it was another riddle.

He was so difficult, this man! So different from Marius! Talking to Marius was the easiest thing in the world. He always let you know exactly what he was thinking and feeling. Well, so did Enjolras, but in a different way. With Marius, you could always tell when he was joking and when he was being deadly serious. As for Enjolras, she had yet to discover if he even knew what a joke was. She couldn't understand how he could stand there and talk about his love for "Patria" with a completely straight face. And yet, there was something oddly refreshing about it. Enjolras seemed so smart, so worldly-wise, yet at the same time he was such an innocent, even more than Marius was. If he ever talked about "Patria" in this way at his ABC meetings, his friends would all have a ball making fun of him. Grantaire, especially, would never let him live it down.

_Is that why he's confiding this in me? Because he thinks a girl won't tease him? If I were a man, I wouldn't dare tease Enjolras. I would just-_

"It is getting late," said Enjolras. "I have greatly enjoyed this little talk we had together. I am glad we found the time to do this."

"Me too," said Éponine. "I would love to do it again. Name the time and place."

"Tomorrow, if that's not too soon for you. I have a rally in the morning, but I can make it right after dinner. I live in the building just across the street and around the corner from the Gorbeau House."

"Across the street and around the corner," Éponine repeated. So she had never been that far from Enjolras after all. Apparently Marius wasn't the only bourgeois who chose a life of poverty when he could be having it all. And to think that in her quest for love she had only looked as far as the next-door apartment!

"So I will meet you right here, at this very spot," Éponine clarified. "Right after the clock strikes one."

"Right here," Enjolras agreed. "I shall see you then, citizeness."

He disappeared into the gloom. Éponine watched him leave, making sure he was not attacked again on his journey across the street and around the corner. Nearly three months after that fateful night, she was still paranoid for his safety.

Citizeness. That was what he had called her. Strange that a word could feel so...empowering. So ordinary, and yet it made her want to change the world. It made her feel that she was changing the world just by being in it. The -ess at the end even made her feel beautiful. She knew it was nothing special, that he referred to every female that way, whether she was a lovely young grisette or a fat old widow like Madame Hucheloup. But still, she wanted to hear him say it again.

* * *

Mid-April- nighttime- after several rendezvouses of this sort

"Are you tired yet?" asked Éponine. 'We've been walking for hours. In circles, I might add."

"A little," Enjolras admitted. "But I'm used to staying up into the wee hours to work on schoolwork and write speeches and plan rallies, so I don't get tired as easily as I used to."

"You know, it's not healthy for a growing young man to get by on such little sleep," Éponine said with concern.

"I'm twenty-two," said Enjolras. "I'm hardly growing anymore."

"Twenty-two?" Éponine repeated incredulously. "I would've taken you for seventeen or eighteen."

"Now, would I be in university if I were seventeen or eighteen?" Enjolras asked in jest.

"I don't know," said Éponine. "Perhaps. I mean, you are very clever, so you could have gotten in a year early- "

"It's a common mistake," said Enjolras. "An unfortunate side effect of my rather...feminine appearance is that I am often taken for younger than I am. Which, I suppose, is why women like to mother me." Éponine blushed, thinking of the way Madame Hucheloup smiled sweetly whenever she brought Enjolras a dish he had requested. "In any case, I will not have you telling me that my habits are unhealthy. I choose to forego food and sleep for the advancement of the cause, whereas you, until relatively recently, were beaten, starved, neglected, left to the elements...speaking of which, what about you? Are you tired?"

"Not really," lied Éponine, stifling a yawn. "I could keep going for hours."

"I wonder what time it is," said Enjolras. "I probably have to get back to my apartment. I'm sorry, I never intended to keep you out this long. I just lost track of the time."

"I know," said Éponine. "It feels like it's been night forever."

"No night is forever," said Enjolras. "Even the darkest night will end and the sun wil rise."

"It's not a question of darkness, it's a question of duration," said Éponine, a bit frustrated. "Anyway, do you think it could happen right now? Has the night been long enough?"

"It's hard to say, but I think so, yes. It could happen at any moment."

"Do you want to bet?"

Enjolras stared at her. "What?"

"You heard me. Do you want to bet on when the sun will rise?"

"Éponine, what money do you have to bet with? All you have are the measly sous Madame Hucheloup pays you and what you get from our friends in tips."

"Very well," said Éponine, "if we can't gamble with money, we shall gamble with our lives."

"Is this some kind of sick joke? You would stake your life on a sunrise?"

"Why not? You already have."

In the darkness, Enjolras' face went pale as a ghost. She was right. Damn the unfurbished wisdom of the street gamine and her brother! It was different, though, he told himself. Éponine had made it sound trivial when it wasn't at all. The exact time of the sunrise didn't affect the human condition, whereas the metaphorical sunrise of the Republic was real and tangible and worth giving one's life for. He wondered for a moment if Éponine would give her life for it, but then he realized that she was right about something else, too- that the time of the literal sunrise did matter. It would have a great influence on day-to-day life if there were half an hour more or less in the day; even just fifteen minutes could make a huge difference. At the barricade, darkness would mean danger and uncertainty, but also time to prepare. Fifteen minutes of sunlight could well mean the difference between life and death, success and failure for the Revolution. So yes, he had also staked his life on a literal sunrise.

Enjolras had never been a big fan of nature. Natural cycles made the human world seem so insignificant. What did it matter, for instance, if France became a republic if there was a sudden drought and there was no food to eat? Or a plague and half the population dropped dead? Chaos would ensue and everything he had worked and fought for would amount to nothing. He acknowledged the necessity of the natural cycles, of course, but he had always been loath to admit that weather, and not righteousness or even strength of arms, could decide battles.

"So, starting now," said Éponine, "if the sun rises in the next ten minutes, then you shoot me. If it rises after that, I shoot you. Or maybe we should go back to back, like a duel. What do you think?"

"Éponine, please. You know we could never hurt each other. This is quite dark even by your standards."

Éponine's shoulders slumped and her voice became serious again. "Back in December I think I would have staked my life on a sunrise," she said sadly. "Or skipping stones on a pond or something just as trivial. I staked everything on Marius and I lost, so I had no reason to go on living. But now..."

Enjolras leaned in closer. "What now?"

"Now I have a friend in you."

Enjolras felt his heart sink. So Éponine still regarded him as just a friend. Even after everything he had done for her, she still longed for Marius' company instead of his own. He did not know exactly why he was jealous- after all, Marius was his friend, no matter how much he couldn't stand him at times, and perfectly deserving of Éponine's love and affection. But at the same time, he was glad that he had made Éponine's life, if not happy, at least worth living. Even in her darkest moments of despair at losing Marius forever, she cared enough for Enjolras to refrain from taking the coward's way out. He hoped desperately that she was not prolonging her misery simply to repay a debt, for it was he that owed her a debt and not the other way around.

"Éponine, I admire you very much. Your life before was cold and dark, but you were unafraid. Even now you are unafraid, as the winds of destiny blow around our fair city."

"Don't be ridiculous, m'sieur. I'm terrified."

"You certainly hide it well."

"I look on the bright side. At least I can feel terror. So I'm not numb like I was before."

"I'm afraid too," said Enjolras, without being prompted.

"Then you hide it even better than I do," she replied.

"I try harder," he said. "As a leader, I must. Sometimes I even manage to fool myself. When I am weak, I draw on the strength of my friends and the knowledge that all across France and around the world, there are people fighting for their ideals, even in the face of grave danger, and tell myself that if they can be that courageous, then certainly I- "

"Paris sure is beautiful in the sunrise."

Enjolras stopped. "What?"

"Do you like to get up early and watch the sunrise, Enjolras? I feel like you would. Well, you're missing a beautiful one right now. Turn around."

Enjolras turned around. Sure enough, there it was. How had Éponine seen it before him? He turned back toward her and saw her staring at its reflection in a store window. It was every bit as beautiful as she had said. The morning sky was tinged with pale orange and flecks of gold shining from underneath the clouds, and Enjolras felt as if all the good things were coming at once, the spring, the revolution, youth, love, beauty, art, music, joy, hope, and new life.

"'Sunrise over Patria'. Sounds like the title of a poem, doesn't it?"

Enjolras nodded. "I'll have to get Jehan to write that one."

"Or a painting."

"Then Grantaire would be the man for the job. Even though he doesn't believe in Patria and always gets up at least an hour after sunrise."

"Well, that's his loss then. He'll just have to imagine it."

"I won the bet," said Enjolras suddenly. "I get to kill you now."

"Oh right," said Éponine with a laugh, "I almost forgot. I'll wait right here while you go home and get your pistol."

Enjolras laughed, laughed at her morbidity and her pessimism and her twisted sense of humor, and as they stood there cackling like maniacs in the sunrise, it occurred to Éponine that she had just done something with Enjolras that she had always dreamed of doing with Marius but never got the chance. She had walked with him till morning.

* * *

A/N: There it is! I hope you found Enjolras' political discourse more interesting than Éponine did. I don't think that Éponine's interest in politics was too OOC, because Enjolras educating 'Ponine about the cause and her coming around to it has to be at the center of every É/E fic, even if it is a cliché. 'Ponine has to have gotten better/more sane/less suicidal now that she's been living at the Musain for over three months. I don't know why I gave her that morbid streak, though, it just seemed right. As always, please review! Go back and review Chapters One and Three as well, 'cause they're feeling pretty lonely right now...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Fair warning- this is the point where the story gets more upsetting

* * *

Éponine respected Enjolras' request not to tell Marius about her feelings for him. It pained her greatly, but she felt that she owed it to Enjolras for saving her from her life of misery. However, the April months turned into May, and Éponine sensed that the Lark's power over Marius was increasing day by day. Marius spent every evening at 55 Rue Plumet, and Éponine came to the conclusion that the Lark's father must have given the two permission to be wed, for how else could he be allowed to enter the gate at night and sit alone for hours with an unmarried woman? 55 was a very small house; nothing could take place there without the father noticing. Surely old Gillenormand must have given them his permission as well, or else Marius had decided that he didn't need his grandfather's permission and was going to marry the Lark whether he liked it or not. Marius was a very willful young man. The two would be married by summertime, Éponine was sure of it. And yet, somehow, her life was not over. In fact, it had never been more exciting.

But not confessing her feelings to Marius, she reasoned, didn't mean she couldn't talk to him. She talked to him more and more, about inocuous topics. At first she asked him to explain what Bonapartists believe, so she could at least hear both sides of the argument. When he was done explaining it, she found to her surprise that she still agreed with Enjolras. She asked him what he thought was wrong with a republic, somewhat more defensively than she had intended, and he replied that there was nothing inherently wrong with a republic, but it could never be as glorious as the Empire under Napoleon. She asked him why it was so important for France to be glorious, and he was at a loss for words. However, he did not seem to be on the verge of converting, any more than he seemed to be losing interest in the Lark, whose name he now knew was Cosette. Éponine was so heartbroken by losing him that it didn't even occur to her that Cosette was the same girl who had been her foster sister all those years ago in Montfermeil. She was an expert on many things, but irony was not one of them.

One day, Éponine stopped Marius on the stairs and asked him, "M'sieur, when you called me a hero back in January- did you really mean it? Or were you just saying it to impress your friends?"

"Of course I really meant it, Éponine," said Marius, shocked and offended by her question. "Why would I ever lie about something like that?"

"It's just- I know that you and M'sieur Enjolras don't really get along, and then there's your political differences- "

"'Ponine, the important thing is that Enjolras and I respect each other's beliefs. We don't agree, but that doesn't mean we harbor any ill will towards each other. We're on the same side. Really, 'Ponine, I can't believe you would ask such a question, it's almost as if you don't trust me- "

"I do trust you!" Éponine burst out, too loudly and too quickly. "I'm sorry, you're right. It was out of line, it won't happen again. I haven't got any excuse, it's just- "

"That you love me," said Marius.

Éponine gulped. What a relief to have it out in the open now! She had promised not to bring it up, but she wasn't technically breaking her promise if Marius brought it up first! And since he brought it up, it must mean he felt the same way! She stuttered "H-how did you know?"

"Really, Éponine, did you think that I was blind? I may not be the smartest fellow, but I can sense it when a girl follows me and finds any excuse to be around me."

"Courfeyrac," said Éponine dreamily. So he had been the angel of Cupid who had brought them together! She had seen him teasing Marius, goading him to drop an extra sou into her tip jar, nudging his elbow whenever she walked past. And now he could be the best man at their wedding...

"Yes, I suppose Courf did have something to do with it," said Marius. "But the truth is, I think you don't really love me. I think it's just a childhood infatuation. You're in love with the idea of me, but you wouldn't be happy if we were together. I know it. Both Courf and I have seen the chemistry you have with Enjolras- "

"You're just saying that to get rid of me," Éponine accused, her eyes welling up with tears.

"No, I mean it," said Marius, putting a hand on her shoulder. "And I think Enjolras really cares for you as well. He lights up around you in a way none of us have ever seen him light up around any woman. You make him laugh. You make him challenge himself to work harder. Éponine- I think he really loves you."

"As a sister maybe," she muttered.

"No," said Marius, shaking his head. "He loves you for real."

"So that makes things pretty convenient for you, right? You marry the Lark, I marry Enjolras, 'Zelma marries one of the other boys, and everything works out just perfectly, doesn't it? Nice and pretty, no loose ends. Y'know, m'sieur Marius, if I didn't know better, I'd think you just didn't like gamines."

"I do like you- "

"As an errand girl," she finished for him. "You never saw me as anything else. Even friendship would be a step up from where I am with you."

Marius opened his mouth to deny it, but he couldn't. It was true. Subconsciously, he had the same prejudices as his grandfather. Even his liberal father never would have approved of the marriage, and the last thing Marius would ever want to do would be to disappoint the colonel. "Everything will work out for the best," said Marius, taking his flight from the stairs. "Trust me."

* * *

As April became May and May became June, Enjolras found less and less time to spend with Éponine. With both Marius and Enjolras growing more distant, the former by choice and the latter by necessity, Éponine began to find a friend in Grantaire. She was one of the only people who would listen to his ramblings, which could go on for nearly ten minutes without a break. Being uneducated unlike most of Les Amis, she found his discourses to be quite eloquent, so much so that it was several weeks before she realized that he didn't believe in the cause. Whereas Azelma preferred to hang out with the trio of Grantaire, Joly and Bossuet, Éponine liked to get R alone. She didn't much like Bossuet and Joly; Joly always told her about all the diseases she probably had from living in filth for so many years, Bossuet was arrogant and had a crude sense of humor, and both of them talked far too much about Musichetta, reminding Éponine of the fact that some girls had two men while she didn't even have one.

Grantaire intrigued Éponine just as much as Enjolras did, but in a different way. She was curious about why he professed not to believe in anything. She sensed that they were polar opposites, yet on a plane far above her, and the only way she could connect to Grantaire on a personal level was their mutual knowledge of drinks. She was the only person, male or female, who did not draw away from him due to his appearance. Also, while the others were busy with their plans for the revolution, Grantaire seemed to have all the time in the world. Grantaire talked to Éponine about his discoveries in the bohemian districts, where gamines and grisettes could transform for a few hours into artists and musicians, and one evening he took her to the Barriére du Maine. Éponine felt quite safe when Grantaire was by her side, due to his skills in boxing and fencing, though she never thought of him as anything but a brother. If she had had a brother like Grantaire, she never would have had to be afraid of Montparnasse. And to think that Montparnasse had claimed that she was his sister!

The thing that fascinated Éponine the most about Grantaire was his...peculiar relationship with Enjolras. Sometimes she was almost jealous of the way Grantaire managed to get his attention and elicit a reaction from him. When they went to the Barriére du Maine together on the first day of June to rally people for the cause, Éponine (who got special permission from Enjolras to accompany him for this very reason) spent the whole time trying to draw him away from his game of dominoes with his friends. She hinted that Enjolras might drop by and check on them, which he had told her that he would do. She ended up doing most of the work passing out fliers and so forth, and got quite a few young women to volunteer to help with building the barricade and caring for the wounded.

"Éponine, you are a wonder," said Enjolras, so pleased with this turnout that he didn't even seem to notice Grantaire sitting on the table playing the harmonica. "I can't believe it never occurred to me before to ask women to do the recruiting, but you are doing a fantastic job- "

"Yeah," said Grantaire tonelessly. "Too bad 'Zelma couldn't join in the fun."

"Where has 'Zelma been?" Éponine asked worriedly. "I haven't seen her all day. Last night, the last time I saw her, she was in our room. She had just come back from visiting Maman, and I remember she looked a little pale. Maybe Maman had said something that upset her, I don't know, and they're not on speaking terms anymore- "

Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged wide-eyed knowing glances. Éponine turned from one of her friends to the other, and asked desperately, "What is it? Do you know something about my sister that I don't? I have a right to know what happened to my sister!" She raised her voice so that the whole Café could hear, and several heads turned towards the unfortunate trio. Making a scene was something she had learned as a lookout, but asserting her rights was something she had learned from Enjolras.

"Éponine," said Grantaire, "didn't you hear? Your sister drank some bad well water when she was at your mother's yesterday and now she has cholera. It's an epidemic going around the city. Your mother has it too. We're sorry, we didn't mean to keep it from you. We just thought you already knew, and we didn't want to be the ones to tell you."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for not posting yesterday. This was a really hard chapter for me to write- not much action, just kind of something to get through before I get to the good stuff. I do try to post a chapter every day, but I'd rather skip a day and have a good chapter than post consistently and have a crappy one. Also, I prefer to post chapters as early as possible in the mornings because I find that more people will read it that way- although this could be an illusion created by the Traffic Graph.

Now the story's really about to start! There will be angst, drama, barricades, heartbreak, and possible Gavroche making a cameo! Stay tuned for the next episode! Also- total noob question- what is the difference between a view and a visitor? I'm guessing that a view is anyone who sees the page, but a visitor is someone who sees the page and is not a member of the site...it's not really important, I'm just curious and it's been bugging me for a while.


	6. Lost in the Valley of the Night

A/N: Wow, I just passed my 500th view! Thanks so much, people! Don't mean to brag, but I really hope this story can keep up its momentum- and as always, please review! Seriously, the reviews are way out of proportion to the number of chapters...

* * *

June 4th, 1832

Les Amis de l'ABC kneeled concernedly at the bedside of Azelma Jondrette. Her face was pale and sunken; she looked terrible. Finally Combeferre got up. "There's nothing we can do for her," he said decisively. "She's going to die today, probably within the hour. Let's leave her alone to spend her last moments with her sister."

Joly nodded in agreement. "At least the cholera isn't contagious," he said. "Now that we know which well it came from, 'Ponine can avoid it. Good thing Marius isn't living at the Gorbeau House anymore, or he'd have caught it too."

Once the Amis had left the room in solemn silence, no doubt to contemplate the choleric death throes of General Lamarque, Éponine leaned down and stroked her sister's dry, wrinkled cheek. "'Zelma," she whispered, "I always thought it was you that should go on. You were the younger, less corrupted version of me. You had more hope. I don't know why God is taking you and Maman away from me, but I know- I hope- you'll be in a better place soon."

"'Ponine, don't say such things," said Azelma softly. Every word that she spoke was painful to say and equally painful to hear. "You have love in your heart. You have a cause to believe in and fight for. You have M'sieur Enjolras."

Éponine froze cold. Was her sister really going to bring up boys at a time like this? She decided to humor her.

"Yes, Azelma," she said. "And I have M'sieur Marius too."

"No," said Azelma, shaking her head weakly. "You heard what M'sieur Marius said. You belong with M'sieur Enjolras." She swallowed heavily, even though there was no moisture in her mouth. It seemed she knew that no further explanation on this subject was needed; if Marius said it, it must be true. "'Ponine, you're going to go on the barricade, you're going to help build it. I'm so sorry I couldn't be there to help you pass out pamphlets the other day. You're stronger than me- when you go to fight, you fight for the both of us. You're my big, brave, beautiful sister- I still remember the time you took the heat for me when we lost that packet of letters... 'Ponine, I love you so very much."

She stroked Éponine's cheek, and Éponine recoiled at her sister's icy touch. "Shh," she whispered, laying Azelma's hand over her stomach in a gesture of completion. "Don't talk. You'll dry yourself out faster. 'Ferre told me so. Let me do the talking."

And for the next half hour, Éponine told Azelma fairy tales, told her stories of their old lives in Montfermeil which Éponine barely remembered and Azelma not at all, but that was no obstacle to her storytelling; back in the days when Maman was still happy and Papa still loved them; back when everything was sane and perfect and beautiful, when winter was a blessing and there were no such things as boys; up until the snowy Christmas evening when Père Nöel, the rich poor man, came to visit and took Cosette away. Who could have guessed that the Lark, the poor, starving foster child their mother had taken in, would be the instrument of their prosperity, and the catalyst of their destitution? Éponine recounted to her sister the doll, Catherine; the wooden slippers; the tiny toy sword; and the old inn stretched out before their dreary eyes like the puppet theater in the center of the marketplace; everything was in their control once more.

Éponine was interrupted by a horrible sound from Azelma's throat. The younger girl sat up abruptly and began to vomit into a bucket which had been laid aside. Éponine grabbed her from behind and held her stomach, but she just didn't stop. The wretching continued, and with every convulsion, a bit of Azelma's life force was left behind. Finally, after one particularly violent expulsion, Azelma did not pitch forward again. She simply fell still for a moment, her eyes wide open, and collapsed into her sister's arms.

Éponine laid Azelma down again on the mattresss and closed her eyes lightly with her fingers the way she had been taught. Then she got up off her knees and walked over to the door to face Madame Hucheloup.

"She's gone."

* * *

Gavroche appeared in the doorway, a small black armband tied across the sleeve of his gamin's blouse. He still did not know that Azelma was his sister. It did not matter, because she was a sister to all of them, and they all mourned her accordingly. On top of that, she was a symbol, a representation of what they were all fighting for. Rich as they may have been, they were all acquainted with death; they had all lost a parent or a sibling or an aunt or uncle or a childhood friend. They knew the danger of that unholy trinity of death- battle, childbirth, and disease; the last the most deadly, the most multifaceted; not discriminating by gender, but rather preying upon the most vulnerable, the elderly and children. Feuilly knew it; Marius knew it; Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who had both lost several friends on the barricades of 1830, knew it.

But the black armband was not for Azelma, nor was it for Madame Jondrette. It was for someone else.

Madame Hucheloup walked about the Café like a ghost, her heavy feet shuffling lightly on the floor. Behind the bar, Gavroche and Combeferre talked seriously in hushed tones. It was so strange for Gavroche to seem solemn and quiet, but he was wise beyond his years, and it was never more apparent than now. Gavroche handed Combeferre a newspaper, and Combeferre nodded as Gavroche gestured to particular parts. It seemed that these men were already in mourning for those who had not yet died, and for those who were dead though they lived still.

Éponine was not a part of this masculine mourning ceremony. She passed unobserved through the small crowd, in a moment of silence for Azelma, _her sister_, and felt that she had no right to be there. She got the feeling that the men wanted her to leave, that they were practicing some sort of telepathic communication, that they knew something they didn't want her to know and had all promised to keep secret. Éponine was no stranger to groups of men; when the Patron-Minette gathered together to plan a robbery, she always understood the code words they used and the gestures and symbols they made. But the ABC students, who spoke the King's French and discussed their plans for revolution in the wide open air, were incomprehensible to her on this night before the barricade. They seemed sad yet determined, a combination of sentiments which she had never witnessed before and knew barely well enough to name. Though they were dreary, they were attentive and wide awake, focused on the task before them.

Grantaire was not present. Éponine was so preoccupied that she did not even notice the absence of the man who had been the one to tell her of her sister's imminent death. She suspected that he was at the Barriére du Maine, drowning his sorrows in liquor because he was weak. Enjolras had taught her to think that people who drank liquor for pleasure were weak and cowardly. Éponine had drunk a lot in the days before meeting Enjolras, albeit not for pleasure, but until that night she had never believed that "drowning one's sorrows" was a real thing. After all, how could a liquid that disorients you and gives you headaches in the morning be considered soothing? She had suspected that this was just another mystery of the male anatomy, but tonight she wanted to wander over to the Barriére du Maine, find Grantaire, and drink her sorrows away with him. For the sake of nostalgia.

Instead she found Enjolras. He was seated in the center of the room, leaning over the table in silent reverie. He hardly ever sat, so the fact that he was seated in a chair with no sign of getting up meant that he was in a very serious mood indeed. The parlor of the Musain was eerily lit, with the candles casting long shadows on the walls. It felt as if it were winter in some Scandinavian outpost rather than summer in one of the biggest cities in the world.

"General Lamarque is dead," said Enjolras without looking up. "That is what Gavroche came to tell us. He is with your mother and sister. God rest them all." She had never heard him mention God before.

She sat down beside him. "You still blame the government for the cholera outbreak," she said. "You're one of those conspiracy theorists. You think they were trying to kill him."

"I don't dismiss the possibility," said Enjolras in the same toneless voice. "I would not go so far as to say that the King is responsible, but I do think it seems awfully convenient."

"Enjolras, these things happen," said Éponine. "There have been epidemics since the beginning of recorded history. People are going to think you're crazy if you start pointing fingers. I mean, do you realize what you're saying? Accusing the King of murdering thousands of his own people, without any evidence besides the fact that it 'seems awfully convenient'? I don't think even the King has that much power."

"Even if the government did not kill those people directly," said Enjolras, "they are still responsible for their deaths. They refuse to spend enough money to maintain the sewers and provide citizens with safe drinking water. Paris is a ticking time bomb of disease, as are London and Berlin and Manchester. Living in the city should not have to mean risking a horrible death whenever the summer or winter months roll around."

"I know it feels good to blame someone when people die," said Éponine, "but I really just want to try to let this one go and move on. I don't want to point at anyone and say 'You killed my sister'. She wouldn't have wanted that. If you'd grown up in the slums like I did, you'd understand that these things are a part of life."

"They don't have to be," said Enjolras. "That's what we're fighting to change. People like Combeferre- they have the intelligence and the know-how to fix the sewers and irrigate the wells so that drinking, bathing and cooking water is clean. The problem is that they don't have the funding. There's no public will for it. So he'll probably end up wasting his career as the private medic for some bourgeois family instead of devoting his life to curing cholera and tuberculosis and military fever. His words, not mine."

Éponine's tired and grieving brain didn't understand half of what Enjolras had just said, but she put a comforting arm on his shoulder. "Combeferre is brilliant," she said. "I'm sure he can cure whatever he wants if he sets his mind to it." Like lovesickess? A broken heart? They were real; people died of them.

"Perhaps," said Enjolras. "But he'd have to go to Berlin or Vienna, where things are more...stable. You know, 'Ponine, that Paris is the greatest city in the world. We cannot have great minds like his deterred by the political situation."

"Do you think we're going to win tomorrow?" she asked him.

"If we can beat them, this is the moment. Revolutions always begin in the summer, 'Ponine; you must have noticed that. There is something about the warm weather that stirs the people and makes them pay heed to the sufferings of their fellow man. I only pray that it will be a day without rain."

* * *

A/N: Wow, the Azelma part was cheesy, wasn't it? Next time- the barricade! Yippee!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry, girls (I'm guessing), but this fic is dragging out a little longer than I had expected, so we won't be meeting Valjean again until Chapter 8. The whole thing will probably go to the upper limit of 15 or 16 chapters, because I want to leave it at a nice round number. Up till now everything has been pretty brick-verse, but this chapter is a little more movie-verse, because it's building the barricade! And because no fic is complete without a creepy dream sequence...

* * *

June 5th, 1832

Éponine had nightmares that night. She dreamed that she was running an errand with Azelma, and when she turned to look at her, her flesh on her face was falling off and she became a skeleton before Éponine's eyes. She dreamed that Marius and Enjolras were two creatures that inhabited the same body, that of Grantaire, and that their personalities switched whenever he took a drink. She dreamed that Montparnasse was a snake that coiled itself around her until she could no longer breathe, all the while hissing in her ear-

"'Ponine! Wake up! It's time to go to Lamarque's funeral."

Éponine moaned groggily and stared at the blurry face hovering above hers. To her intense relief, it was only Courfeyrac. But she had no time to sigh before he stripped the blankets off her skinny body and began throwing them haphazardly in the corner.

"Here's a dress Enjolras picked out for you to wear. He thinks it's appropriately respectful to wear to a funeral procession. Underneath it you'll wear these." He produced a corset and a light, loose-fitting blouse with matching pants. So she was to be disguised as a man. A little part of her was offended that Enjolras saw her that way. Well, fine. She could be a man. She had done it enough times before.

"Enjolras doesn't expect you to fight," Courfeyrac clarified quickly, seeing her expression. "He just wants you to be wearing something convenient, that's all. You'll be in the Café loading carbines and tending to the wounded. Now hurry up and get dressed. We're meeting the others at the Rue de la Chanvevrie in an hour."

Courfeyrac left the room, and Éponine got dressed as quickly as she could. Why couldn't Enjolras have been there himself, if what she wore was so important to him? She knew the answer, of course- because he was the leader and had to do things an hour ahead of everyone else. It was admirable, but also exhausting, even to think about.

Her cloudy mind was vaguely angry that she was allowed only one night in which to mourn for her sister, and now she had to go out in public and wear mourning for some General Lamarque she had never even heard of until a few weeks ago? Her sister, her only sister, was barely cold, would never get to see the revolution that would have liberated her from a life of poverty, and was still lying on their shared mattress while Éponine was sleeping in Madame Hucheloup's bed and Madame Hucheloup was sleeping on the floor out in the hall, with only a folded blanket for a pillow. And why would Enjolras just _assume_ that she wanted to be a part of his little demonstration anyway, without even asking her first? Well, no matter. She would tell people that she was in mourning for General Lamarque, but she was really in mourning for her sister, and no one would be the wiser. Being in mourning for two people at once- did that mean that she had to wear twice the black?

Éponine got dressed as quickly as she could and had Madame Hucheloup- who was still fussing about how improper it was for a young man to enter the room of a young girl who was sleeping and wake her up- tie her corset tightly in the back. Madame Hucheloup was not going to the funeral. She was going to stay in the Café and make lint bandages for when the wounded arrived. Éponine saw that Madame Hucheloup was doing her part just like the rest of them, despite her terror.

Before she left with Courfeyrac, Madame Hucheloup hugged the girl and said, "Make me proud out there, ma fille. I am already so very proud of you." Éponine was smothered by Madame Hucheloup's embrace, and in that moment, every part of her wanted to survive so that she could come home to a mother who loved her and could take care of her right. She was not going to rob this sweet, gentle woman of another child.

When Courfeyrac descended the stairs and stepped outside with Éponine on his arm, the air was brisk and cool. Periodically it threatened to rain. Éponine prayed silently for it not to rain, for Enjolras' wish to be fulfilled.

The mourning gown was hot and itchy on top of Éponine's clothes. She was conscious that it made her look like a bourgeois, and a rather plump one at that. She inched gradually away from Courfeyrac, lest people think they were a couple. If Marius should see them-

No, she reminded herself. Marius was not coming to the funeral. Courfeyrac had asked him yesterday and reported that he had seemed "quite unenthusiastic". So that was it. Marius had made his choice. The Lark was the most important thing in his life. So be it, the filthy coward- No, no, she hastily corrected herself. Marius was brave and clever and wonderful in every way. He just didn't want to come to the funeral because... She couldn't think of a good excuse for him. She kept walking.

As promised, the two met Enjolras at the corner of Rue de la Chanvevrie. Courfeyrac looked around for their other friends, but a slight nudge from Enjolras made him cease. His message was clear: Don't look around, that will cause suspicion. Just trust that they're out there.

Éponine stood between Courfeyrac and Enjolras, looking more beautiful now in black than she had looked since living in Montfermeil. She appeared quite the ingenue. Passers-by slowed down to observe the young girl situated between the two gentlemen, but despite her clothing did not seem to be like them. Enjolras stole a brief glance at the top of Éponine's dress, then looked Courfeyrac in the eye. Courfeyrac nodded; underneath she was wearing the designated clothes. Anyone looking closely would have been able to see a corner of white blouse peeping out from under her hemline. To the uninformed observer, this scene would have looked like a careless, youthful display of casual lust; but in reality it was just one more pretense under which to secure the seeds of the insurrection.

Suddenly, Enjolras began singing.

His voice was soft and steady, as if in harmony with the beat of some distant drum. Éponine did not know this song, but she felt vaguely that she had heard it before, and that she had found it moving. She did not realize that Enjolras was singing until she looked over at him and saw his lips moving with quiet and barely contained passion. His eyes were narrowed and fixed at some point on the horizon- Lamarque's funeral carriage was coming around the bend. That big black behemoth, glinting in the sun of early June, crossed for a moment behind the tall white elephant in which Gavroche and his brothers made their home. At the same time, Éponine noticed that other voices were singing behind her, familiar young male voices, clear and strong. She could not resist turning around to look.

Combeferre! The one they called the guide! She beamed in gladness to see him there, right behind her, and in the moment before she turned back around he smiled. Nothing bad could happen to her as long as Combeferre was near.

She thought she glimpsed the faces of Joly, Bossuet, Jehan... Still no Marius, fool that she was for hoping. Well, it was their fault, anyway. They had alienated him for his political beliefs, made him feel unwanted just because he wanted to remain loyal to his father. So of course he was going to run off into the arms of a woman. And they had no right to complain now that they had lost a fine soldier.

_A heart full of love..._

If it was a heart full of love that you wanted to talk about, you should talk about Enjolras. That man's heart was constantly overflowing. He had so much love inside him that he had never been able to funnel it into one person, so he gave it all to his Patria. His logical mind would not let him give more love to one individual than that individual was due. So he spread it equally to every citizen, every human being in the world, even the ones he would never know. Each portion was large, but not so large that he ceased to seem made out of stone. Éponine had never met anyone who was so pure, so completely loving, so blind and so crazy and so wise and so all-powerful.

Without her knowledge, her hand slipped into his. For a moment they clenched.

Just then a shot rang out. "To the barricade!"

In one horrified instant, Éponine realized that this shout came from Enjolras. He broke away from her and started to run in the direction of the funeral carriage. Éponine knew that she was not prepared for this part. No one had told her what exactly was going to happen. Perhaps they did not know themselves. Without thinking, she started following him at her quickest pace.

Before she knew it, Éponine was surrounded by Les Amis de l'ABC. Around her, young men were climbing on top of the long black coffin. Éponine stood by its side, resting her hand on the polished mahogany in a gesture of respect and solidarity. It felt so right that it did not even occur to her how out of place she looked.

Éponine looked up at the young men on the carriage waving the red banner and was nearly floored. Was this real? Were her eyes playing tricks on her? No- it was Marius, her Marius, come to join the revolution at the eleventh hour! How could she have even thought all those horrible things about him? She hated herself! Of course Enjolras had convinced him that the cause was just and right, of course he would come to see reason just as Enjolras had predicted! And here they were, the two men that she loved, standing together side by side-

What?

The carriage stopped abruptly, and Éponine realized with horror that an entire battalion of National Guardsmen were facing them down. Their caps were lowered, their rifles cocked and aimed, their gazes steady. Éponine gulped. What could she do? She was down here, and Marius was all the way up there. What if she couldn't get to him in time to save him? Her brain worked desperately to try to think of a solution, but every time she looked up, the blond halo of Enjolras blocked her view. If she could just back up a little more-

Another shot rang out, this one much closer. Éponine jumped and looked around frantically to see if anyone had been hurt. She couldn't bear any more death, not today, not after what had just happened. Please, God, not today. And please tell me it wasn't someone on our side who fired that shot.

"You killed an innocent woman!"

Courfeyrac's robust voice burst forth from the throng, and his sleek body rushed forward. In spite of herself, Éponine was relieved. So it had been the soldiers who had fired first. Unless someone on their side had misfired-

A strong hand led Éponine away, and as they fled the scene, Éponine heard the familiar cacophony of panic- women screaming, children crying, women who could have been her mother, the timid and passive creating a pathway for the valiant. They ran toward the widest part of the Rue de la Chanvevrie, each step taking them farther away from Marius. Éponine turned back wildly several times, praying for just a glimpse of his divine black mane, anything to let her know that he was not among the initial casualties. But the hand that led her forward was insistent, and calm, and bold, and Éponine realized stupidly that it belonged to Enjolras. Somehow he had managed to climb down from the funeral carriage in time to personally escort her to the barricade that did not yet exist.

"Shield yourself," he told her as they parted ways. "Furniture is going to be falling." He clasped her hands tightly once more and took off to give orders to his comrades.

At the earliest opportunity, Éponine made her way into a small alley and slipped out of her mourning dress. She left it, the fanciest dress she had worn since starting puberty, on the ground and ran into the backroom of the Café. There was much work to be done.

* * *

A/N: Well, that turned out better than I expected! Pretty canon in the second half, I guess, but I'm usually not too good at writing action scenes, especially when they're set in a time period I'm unfamiliar with. Also, yay, they finally held hands- twice in one day! I sure made you wait for that minor display of platonic affection, didn't I? Anyway, thanks for reading! And of course, please review!


	8. He is a Man Who Saves Others

**A/N: So this chapter was really hard to finish because 1) there were a lot of editing issues and 2) I've been a bit distracted lately and am losing some of my motivation. As I mentioned before, I'm lazy and have poor self-motivation, and I know I'm not the only one out there with this problem. Any and all reviews help me stay focused and on schedule (not that I have a schedule).**

* * *

Éponine was alone in the bar, working furiously to stuff carbines. Most of the women she had recruited for the cause had gone to other barricades around the city to aid the insurgents. While it was nice to have some solitude and not have to deal with new people at the moment, in this already overwhelming situation, she found the lack of company to severely diminish her focus. If only Azelma could be there beside her, telling her jokes and making her laugh-

No, she couldn't think of Azelma now. It was too painful. Even Madame Hucheloup couldn't be with her, to comfort her. She was downstairs in the wine cellar doing the same tasks as Éponine, because she had heart trouble and might suffer an attack if she got too close to the noise and gunsmoke. Periodically Gavroche rushed up and down the stairs to deliver the loaded carbines to the students above.

About five hours after noon, Enjolras hastily entered the back room of the Musain to collect gunpowder and ammunition. "Enjolras, I don't want to stay in here for the whole battle," Éponine protested. "I want to be in it, doing everything I can. At least let me go outside to bandage the men's wounds, let me be useful."

"'Ponine, you _are_ being useful. We need you where you are. At any rate, why would I allow a young woman to join the battle?"

"Some of those men have never held a gun before," said Éponine, gesturing wildly. "I've _fired_ one, as you may recall."

"Yes, but that was a warning shot." He held her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes. "Éponine, there are rules of war by which gentlemen must abide. I refuse to put a female in harm's way unless it is absolutely necessary. And right now, 'Ponine, things are not that desperate." He ran back out towards the barricade, with a sack of bullets, and left her there in a confused haze.

Phooey, Éponine thought as she turned back to her work. I could have passed as a man, if the students didn't all know me. I could show them. She snorted angrily, and a small cloud of dust flew up in her nose, making her wheeze and turn aside.

The first battle had not yet begun, but Éponine could hear the Guard's bootsteps approaching the barricade. She knew that Enjolras was far too clever to let them trick him into wasting all his ammunition. They had the numbers, but he had a quick and practical mind and he knew his military history. As he had told her, there are ways that a people can fight.

It was right about then that Grantaire straggled in. "Is this the place to get drunk and witness a tragedy?" he asked. "Because I've seen all too many tragedies sober."

"Wh- why are you here?" Éponine demanded. "How did you get past the Guard?"

"Oh, I have my methods, to be sure," said Grantaire. "It might have something to do with the fact that I never left the Musain since last evening, although I remained out of sight. I've been coming and going ever since the battle started, but I wanted to wait until defeat was imminent in order to begin the process of my inebriation. Hit me, mademoiselle, I want to numb myself so I can watch my friends die with dignity. Sit back like Dionysus and let the inevitable catharsis unfold from a distance so as to render it poetic and beauteous."

"They aren't going to die," Éponine insisted. "And you're weak if you think that you can trivialize this battle by calling it a 'Greek tragedy' or whatever and pretending that it never happened."

"I may be weak, but you're naïve," said Grantaire, taking a seat beside her and pointing emphatically. "Which is worse, I ask you? I will let you consider that one on your own. Now direct me to the wine cabinet, I think those lovelies are the only things that can help me now."

Just as it was beginning to grow dark outside, Éponine heard a clash that resembled someone being hit over the head with a pan. She whirled around to see that this was exactly what had happened, that the assailant was Bossuet and the victim was an unknown older man whose only distingishing feature was a pair of impressive sideburns. Bossuet dragged the swarthy stranger into the corner and tied his arms behind his back while Joly's skinny frame leaned forward to kick him repeatedly in his nether regions. Éponine backed away in fear. Had her friends gone insane? Why were they torturing this man who was obviously on their side? She had never imagined that sweet, gentle Joly was capable of such ruthlessness.

"Spy," explained Bossuet when he saw Éponine's horrified expression. His face was bloody and he panted as he spoke. "We caught him- just now- Gavroche identified him as a policeman. He doesn't deny it. Says his name's Javert."

Éponine made momentary eye contact with the accused spy, then turned back to Bossuet. "What are you going to do with him?" she asked nervously.

"That's for the people to decide," said Joly, giving Javert one final kick. "But I don't think there's any doubt as to his deserved fate."

The two students left the café, and Éponine returned to her routine as if nothing had happened. Javert stared at her the entire time, but she did not grant him the satisfaction of returning his gaze.

By late that evening, the Guard had arrived and the battle had officially begun. From time to time Éponine heard the latest reports- Bahorel is dead, Jean Prouvaire is dead, Father Mabeuf was killed planting the flag atop the barricade. None of the reports were good, but the students assured her that the people would soon join them and the tide of the battle would turn in their favor. Grantaire looked at Éponine with sad, knowing eyes that seemed to say "I told you so".

Suddenly Éponine heard a huge blast in the direction of the barricade. The floor underneath her trembled. Terrified, she craned her neck to peek out the window. The barricade was gone, up in smoke and flames.

Éponine ran outside, musket in hand, and assessed the situation. She could tell immediately what had been the cause of the explosion. Marius was slumped at the top of the barricade, powder keg in one hand and torch in the other. Suddenly, as if seeing events through a Gypsy's crystal ball, she knew exactly how events must have unfolded. How Marius, her daring young Baron de Pontmercy, had taken the powder keg and lifted the torch to it, how the captain of the guard had given the order to retreat, how everyone had cheered for the savior of the barricade, how Marius had been watching the guardsman and not the torch, the horror in his eyes when he realized that the keg was on fire, and then darkness. He was dead. She had failed. She should have been with him at every moment, to look out for him, and it was Enjolras' fault that she hadn't been. And now his beautiful, noble body had been burned alive with no more grace than a piece of kindling. She began to weep.

The other men were crumpled up below him, not moving. Desperately, Éponine tried to see if any of them were groaning or writhing in agony, signs of life. But she heard only terrible silence and saw only the charred bodies of her friends.

A tear trickled down Éponine's cheek, but she had no time to grieve. She had to find anyone who might still be living and get as many survivors to safety as possible. No matter what, she couldn't give up hope. Someone had to have survived the barricade. Someone had to have been saved so that hope could go on.

* * *

Enjolras was passing out National Guard uniforms to insurgents when he witnessed the barricade go up in smoke and flames. Suddenly the breath was knocked out of him and everything went black. A large weight had landed on him stomach. After a moment, he realized it was a man. A man who had jumped on top of him and saved his life.

When the smoke had cleared enough for light to return, Enjolras coughed and looked at the man's face. It was familiar. He was the gendarme who had defended Enjolras' innocence in the attack on New Year's Eve. At first Enjolras was overwhelmed with gratitude, but then a wave of terror swept through him. If this man was from the National Guard, then he must be another spy! But why would a spy save the life of the leader of the insurgents? Enjolras seemed to remember that the man's name had been said on that night by the police captain. If only he could remember it, maybe he could figure out whether the man before him was really the same man who had rescued him from jail. But he couldn't let on the fact that he was suspicious. He had to treat this potential saboteur as he would treat any of his allies.

Looking up at him more closely, he realized that the man had a mattress on his back. It was the same one he had shot down from the window only minutes before. It had absorbed the shock of the blast and was no doubt the only reason he wasn't dead right now. The man tried to get on his feet and grunted in pain. "I think- I think I broke my leg," he said, stoically yet with a grimace.

"Let me help you up," said Enjolras, taking his arm and trying to brace it against the wall. "There you are, monsieur."

"Are you all right?" asked the man, leaning over him with his weight supported on one leg. "Was every part of your body shielded from the blast? Forgive me, I should have asked that right away instead of worrying about myself."

Enjolras stared at him with a quizzical expression on his face. This last statement had made him both more and less suspicious of this man. Surely no one could be that selfless toward a stranger without some ulterior motive. And yet... was he not violating that principle himself, just by being part of the rebellion?

"Citizen, I must know the name of my savior," said Enjolras, reaching out to shake his hand. "I am forever in your debt."

The man blushed with what seemed to be modesty, but Enjolras couldn't be sure. He seemed to be considering, then said, "They call me Fauvent."

Fauvent. So it was similar to Fauchelevent, but not the same. It could well be the same man. Daring to pry a little further, Enjolras said, "It seems we have met before. Do you remember me?"

"Yes," said the man. "Not by name, but I remember you as the bourgeois who was robbed by the Patron-Minette. Thanks to you, a notorious street gang is now behind bars."

"Thanks to me and Mademoiselle Jondrette," Enjolras corrected him. He made a snap decision to trust the man, at least for the moment. "Come, we must get to safety before the smoke clears and the Guard storms the barricade. There's no time to lose."

"Hello? Is anyone still alive? Enjolras? Anyone? Where are you?"

Enjolras heard a cagey voice coming from the direction of the café. Out of the smoke, he saw the scraggly-haired figure of Éponine coming towards him. Oh, thank God she was safe! Gasping with relief, he untangled himself from Fauvent and ran to embrace her. Fauchelevent staggered to stand upright, one palm bracing against the wall.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered into his hair.

"This man saved my life," said Enjolras, gesturing towards Fauvent/Fauchelevent. "He thinks he broke his leg. He needs help getting out of here."

Enjolras put his arm around Fau(chele)vent's right shoulder, and Eponine took his left. "Children, this is not necessary," said Fau(chele)vent. "I am an old man, it is right that I should be left to die. Go and save yourselves. Just tell Marius that he has my permission to marry my daughter."

"Marius?" said Éponine and Enjolras at the same time. They looked at Fauchelevent and then at each other. Enjolras gave Éponine a look that said "We'll tell him when we get to safety." Éponine nodded. Enjolras said to Fau(chele)vent, "We won't hear of leaving you behind, monsieur. Les Amis de l'Abaisse never abandon those in need. Now I don't want to hear another word out of you until we get inside. You are injured and must save your breath."

Fau(chele)vent hobbled along with the mattress on his back, and the trio kept as close to the wall as they could until they made it to the door of the Musain. Enjolras let Fau(chele)vent squeeze through first, and Éponine braced him as he pitched forward through the doorframe. Suddenly all three of them noticed Grantaire, who had been fast asleep only moments before at the table where Éponine was loading carbines, and who was now standing and stared at them with a wild and terrified look in his eyes.

"Grantaire," said Enjolras urgently, "we need the key to the wine cellar. The Guard is coming any minute now and we have to hide. This man is injured. There's no time to lose."

* * *

A/N: So there you have it! Dun-dun-DUN! Sorry about killing Marius- I didn't want to, but he had to go. And please don't comment on this with any Marius hate about how he deserved to die, because he didn't. No one in Les Misérables deserved to die. But they did, and that's what makes it so sad.


	9. Chapter 9

The wine cellar was dark and located at the bottom of a long, winding staircase. Grantaire knew this path well, and was used to traversing it in the dark. He ran along in front, carrying a lantern for the others to see their way. Fau(chele)vent's feet hit the stairs, despite Enjolras' and Éponine's best efforts, but to their surprise, he did not cry out in pain. Eponine struggled to keep up with Grantaire's fast pace, meanwhile blowing the strands of hair out of her eyes.

Grantaire stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face them. He had only been awake for a few minutes, but he was as alert as he could possibly be. "Here," he said, holding the lantern over his head. "I'll watch the door while you set him up on the mattress." The look in his eyes was dismal and grim. Enjolras noticed that he didn't even make a crack about being locked in a room full of wine. Normally he would boast that he wanted all the wine to himself.

In the farthest corner of the cellar, Éponine made out a short, squat figure hunched over in fright. She almost screamed, thinking that they had been followed and were caught in a trap. But to her great relief, it was only Madame Hucheloup. Of course- she should have remembered. Only a slit of Madame's terrified face was visible by the light of Grantaire's lantern. She couldn't imagine how the old woman had been able to stuff carbines in such dim light, especially with her eye troubles.

"Madame Hucheloup?" she said. "Are you all right?"

Madame Hucheloup nodded. "Shh," she whispered, huddling her arms like it was cold. "Not so loud. Bahorel told me to stay down here because he didn't want a little old widow seeing blood and carnage. But I think he really wanted me to stay so I could guard the wine cellar as a hiding place. I couldn't have borne to see it anyway." She shuddered. "Is the barricade gone already?"

Enjolras nodded severely. "Thus far, it appears we are the only survivors. But there may be more to come." He motioned for Grantaire to go to the door. "Madame, we need your help attending to this man. He is badly hurt and thinks he may have broken a leg."

"Oh dear," said Madame Hucheloup. "Well, here, lay him down on the floor. Good thing he already has a mattress on his back."

Éponine and Enjolras grabbed Fau(chele)vent's arms and lowered him to the floor. Once he was in a comfortable position, Madame Hucheloup propped up his broken leg on an empty wine box. "How does that feel?" she asked him.

"Fine," he said, smiling weakly. "Only... hard."

Madame Hucheloup almost laughed. She gently rolled back Fau(chele)vent's pant leg to examine what lay beneath. "Well, I don't see anything wrong with your leg, monsieur," she said slowly, "only it's bruised here and there and- is it just me, or is it slightly twisted?" She turned her head to take a closer look. "Oh dear, monsieur, you're bleeding. It's okay, it's not much, but there's a gash..." She took off her bandanna and tied it around the wound. "There, that ought to stop it. Of course, I'm no doctor, but..." Suddenly her eye caught Enjolras', and they both remembered the two medical students whose knowledge had been lost forever only minutes before. They lowered their gazes in silence.

"How long do we have before they come?" asked Grantaire, peering through the crack in the door.

"No idea," said Enjolras. "Maybe they won't come down here at all. But we must hurry and barricade the door."

"Here," said Grantaire, grabbing a dusty wooden plank from the corner.

"That won't do," said Enjolras. "It's too thin. We need something metal, like an iron bar."

"Like this?" Grantaire said, picking up a small cage lying next to the plank.

"Well, I'd hoped for something bigger, but maybe we can work with that," he said. "If we can find a way to cut off and twist the bars-"

"Here," said Fau(chele)vent, raising his hands. "Give that to me."

Grantaire stared at Enjolras quizzically, then at Madame Hucheloup. "Can he exert hims-"

"Grantaire, just give it to him. If he thinks he can do it, he probably can."

Grantaire blushed in shame and handed the cage to Fau(chele)vent. This was coming from the man who said he was incapable of thinking, being, living or dying. Why did he trust this elderly stranger and not Grantaire, who had always been there for him?

The four watched in amazement as Fau(chele)vent took the cage, snapped off the longest and heaviest bar, and bent it in such a way as to twist around a doorknob, all in less than a minute. Dumbfounded and grateful, Enjolras took the bar from him and wrapped it around the doorknob and a large butcher's knife which he stabbed into the wall.

"Now," said Madame Hucheloup, trying to break the awkward silence, "we must dull the pain with liquor. Fortunately, we seem to have a rather large collection at the moment. What kind of liquor does monsieur like? Absinthe? Brandy? Irish whisky?"

"I personally recommend the absinthe," said Grantaire.

"Forgive me, madame, I am not a drinker. I only drink communion wine on Sundays, nothing stronger. I will trust our friend's judgment."

Grantaire shrugged at Enjolras and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "_Now_ am I good for something?"

Madame Hucheloup obligingly reached behind her for the absinthe bottles. "I think we have laudanum upstairs," she said as she poured it down his throat. "But I can't exactly go up and get it, can I?"

* * *

Grantaire spent the rest of that night with his ear pressed against the door. Meanwhile, Monsieur Fau(chele)vent seemed to have entered into a sort of delirium. Occasionally he moaned things such as "Cosette, where are you?" and "Tell Marius I forgive him," then lapsed back into a stupefied silence. Éponine and Enjolras still hadn't told him about Marius' death. By a tacit agreement, they would not tell him until he sobered up. Éponine huddled up in a dark corner, trying to drink herself into a stupor like Fau(chele)vent. But everything she drank was too familiar. She craved something new, something that would wipe all he senses away.

"He saved my life," explained Enjolras to Madame Hucheloup and Grantaire, as emphatically as he could while still keeping his voice low. "First he braves the cannon and grape-shot to deliver us a mattress to protect the barricade, then- still completely heedless of his own safety- jumps on top of me just as the barricade is blown to smithereens! Even with the mattress to protect him, it's a miracle he survived at all. Combeferre was right. He is a man who saves others, plain and simple."

As dawn was approaching- though they had no way of knowing it- Enjolras sat down next to Éponine in her corner. "I know you're drunk," he said, "but I want you to know- if there's anything you need from me, all you have to do is ask."

Éponine swallowed bitterly. "Don't talk to me," she said. "I know you blame Marius for being a fool and getting all your friends killed. I know you never liked him. I know- " Here she burped, and Enjolras covered her mouth in fear that some soldiers might hear it.

"You're so wrong," said Enjolras, backing away in horror that she would think that. "Marius and I may have had our political disagreements, but he was a true hero tonight. A true martyr. What happened was an accident. But it is thanks to that accident that you and I and Grantaire are still alive. We are forever indebted to Marius, just as we are forever indebted to Monsieur Fauvent."

"Should we tell him now?" Eponine asked.

Enjolras looked at Fauchelevent and shrugged. "Now's as good a time as any. He seems to be sobering up. If we keep it from him much longer, he's going to accuse us of hiding it from him." He could not take this moment to tell Éponine of his suspicions. It would be ungrateful.

"Hiding what from me?"

Enjolras and Éponine both caught the eyes of Grantaire, who was sitting cross-legged by the door. "Not you," Enjolras said softly. He pointed to Fau(chele)vent. "Him."

"Oh," said Grantaire, turning back to the door. "It's just that whenever you say 'He seems to be sobering up- ' You know what, never mind. It's someone else's turn to take the shift." He got up and went over to sit on a keg by the far wall.

Slowly, Éponine and Enjolras got up and walked over to Fau(chele)vent. They kneeled down on either side of him and, at Enjolras' signal, took his hands. Éponine worried for a moment that he was going to kiss it.

"Children," said Fau(chele)vent, "you are so good to me. Tell me, has there been any news of Marius? Is he all right?"

"That's what we wanted to tell you about, m'sieur," said Éponine. "You see- " She broke off crying. "There's no way to put it gently, Marius is dead."

Enjolras stared at her in open-mouthed horror and disbelief at her bluntness. Fau(chele)vent's eyes crinkled, and the children couldn't tell whether he was happy or sad.

"I have failed," he whispered, so softly that Enjolras and Éponine could barely hear his words. "I have failed Cosette." A tear began to form in one of his eyes, and Éponine could not believe that the man who had been so strong only months before and held his own against her father's gang was weeping right in front of her. The only person she had ever seen cry at all was Azelma, and she had not been a very comforting big sister to her.

Suddenly Éponine noticed a faint light emanating dully from the adjacent room. A small candle at the foot of a table, and on that table a body- that of Azelma. Madame Hucheloup must have carried her downstairs between when Éponine left with Courfeyrac and the beginning of the battle. Éponine shuddered. The wine cellar was doubling both as a hiding place and a morgue.

"D- did you know him?" Éponine managed to stammer softly. Oh God, how could she care about Marius at a time like this? "B- because I always thought, you know, from the way Marius acted- that he was afraid of being caught by you. So I assumed you must not like him."

"It's my fault," Fau(chele)vent whispered to her. "I was jealous and selfish. I wanted to keep Cosette for myself, and I wished ill on him. I went to the barricades just to see him- I don't know with what intention, but I kept my eye on him the whole time. If I had not gotten distracted, he and the others would not have been killed."

"Do not say such things, monsieur," said Enjolras firmly, turning Fau(chele)vent's face toward him. "I forbid it. You did as much for the cause as a pacifist can do, and risked your life more times than any of us can count in the course of one evening. Many people are willing to kill and die for what they believe in, but it is a rare and precious few who will die but refuse to kill."

Enjolras said this as much to convince himself as Monsieur F. But the more he listened to and observed the man, the less he suspected him. True, a spy could not escape with a broken leg, and Enjolras did not doubt that his leg was really broken. But somehow he couldn't bring himself to think that someone who cared so much for his daughter could be a mole for the police.

"That is very kind of you to say, monsieur," said Fauvent, "but I didn't do it for the cause. I did it for- I know not what reason. I respect your cause very much, monsieur, but I regret to say that I don't know much about political philosophy at all. Doing good and helping others is all God expects us to understand."

"You know enough to be able to tell the difference between right and wrong," said Enjolras. "And that's more than most politicians know. So, I say, monsieur, you are educated enough."

Fau(chele)vent lowered his eyes in sadness. "I just realized that I will never see Cosette again," he said.

"Yes, you will," said Éponine, and it was the last thing she expected to hear come out of her mouth. "You will stay here and recover, and when you do, we will bring you home to Cosette. Right, Enjolras?"

"Of course," Enjolras agreed. But deep down, neither of them had any idea how they were going to do it.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you liked my ingenious plot device- don't ask what the cage was doing in a wine cellar, what matters is that it's _symbolic_. Maybe Madame Hucheloup used to have a pet bird. Yeah, that's it.


	10. The Lark Takes Flight

**A/N: Hey guys, I'm on vacation right now and the wi-fi is spotty, so I won't be posting chapters quite as regularly. And don't worry, I didn't forget about everyone's (least) favorite female character...**

* * *

June 6, 1832

Cosette Fauchelevent woke up with the feeling that something had gone horribly wrong. Her maid, Toussaint, was pacing about the house like a madwoman, but Cosette thought nothing of that; Toussaint had always been a little bit mad. No, Cosette sensed an absence, a place where something ought to be but wasn't, an emptiness in some recess of her soul. She got up hesitantly and began to look around, dreading what she would discover.

Papa was gone, but that wasn't what troubled Cosette. In the eight and a half years they had lived together, she had gotten used to his coming and going. He was probably out on patrol, or on another one of his late-night wanderings. But it was a bad night to be out in Paris. Surely he must know that there was trouble brewing among the student population. Oh God, what if Marius was out there, fighting on the barricades with his friends? Cosette could think of no worse nightmare than her father and the man she loved on opposite sides of a battle. It made her head spin and her stomach churn, like the world was falling to pieces.

God was punishing her. She had been selfish for wanting two men in her life fussing over her and now He was taking both of them away. Like Paris and Menelaus in the Iliad, they were fighting over some pretense of politics, but really they were fighting over her. At that moment, Cosette swore to God Almighty that she would give up all her beauty and return to live in the convent for the rest of her life if only both of these men would emerge from the battle unharmed.

In her agony, Cosette snuck a look out the window. It was still mostly dark, with soft lavendar clouds peeking out from behind the garden gate. Maybe, if she left now, Toussaint wouldn't notice that she was missing until she was at the barricade. Maybe, if she could just open the lattice without making a sound-

Cosette froze when she heard Toussaint's shuffling footsteps moving past her door. Instinctually, she hid her slender frame in the narrow space between the hinges and the corner, as if fearing the approach of some unknown older woman from her past. Something was about to converge upon her today, and things would turn out better if she could just go out and meet it.

Finally Toussaint left, and Cosette knew that her moment had come. She slid the hook off the window ledge and lowered her slippered foot into the garden. She encountered a hedge, and wiggled herself until she could slope her knee over the prickly bush. Cosette had always had a special affinity with hedges, but lately she had come to see them as mazes, as shadows and obstacles. These days she preferred wide open spaces, like the walkways in the park Luxembourg. Without those spaces she never would have met her love, Marius, never would have been able to peek around from the bench and send him a flirtatious riddle with her eyes, never chased him with the ethereal promise of her chestnut locks, never reflected the sun's charming afternoon glow with her radiant cheeks, never concealed an angelic whisper beneath her innocent yet voluptuous eyelashes, never discovered a handsome gentleman who fancied a young lady dressed in black over all the bright colors of the surrounding blossoms, as if he too had had some unspeakable tragedy in his life.

But all that mattered little now. Marius was in danger and only she could save him. As she crept out of the garden and unlatched the gate, everything the nuns had taught her came flooding back: beg the Lord forgiveness for your sins, fall down on your knees and pray, recite your rosary, hail Mary, seek Grace. Papa had reinforced these teachings as much as he could, though he had always seemed to think her incapable of sin. And yet, somehow, she had misled everyone. She had misled the sisters into thinking she would grow up to be ugly, she had misled Papa into thinking she was a saint, she had misled the young officer into thinking she fancied him, and now she had misled Marius into thinking that she wanted him to die for her sake; she might as well have told an outright lie. She was not pure, she was not holy, she was not virtuous, she was not a virgin at heart; she had looked upon a man with lust and consequently betrayed her father, she was going to hell. Through sheer determination and force of will, she had to convince God that she was worthy of His salvation, and find the two men who meant so much to her, and bring them home.

The prenumbral musings of the Rue de l'Homme Armé were unfamiliar to Cosette. She simply followed the path which she felt had been traveled by her father, as if pulled along by some invisible string. She had seen such mysteries before, in puppet shows. She believed in them. She believed in séances and fortune telling and voodoo magic and the signs of the occult. The superstitions of the nuns had never quite satisfied her, and as soon as she left the Petit-Picpus, she had gone searching for others, ones she read about in books and which no one, not even her father, could disprove. She felt that these were the only things which could explain her past, her mother, everything she had ever longed to know but never had the heart to ask of the infinitely strong yet fragile old man whose heart she could so easily break without even trying.

Without realizing it, Cosette began running. Her slippers flew off her feet, and she abandoned them on the cobblestones, the cold rock feeling natural beneath her. If only Marius would appear and hold her in his arms, everything would be all right. He wouldn't care that her hair was uncombed, or that she was wearing her nightgown, or that her dainty, ladylike feet were probably ruined; he would come and bring her slipper back to her, just like Prince Charmant in her favorite fairy tale, Cinderelle, and find that it fit her perfectly. He loved her no matter what, and she loved him, and they would be together.

Somehow, Cosette's hunches led her to the Rue de la Chanvevrie. She smelled smoke, and saw furniture piled up in the street, but none of it seemed quite real to her; it was just the conjuring of some magician, like the ones she had seen in the square around Christmastime. She felt the presence of Marius around her; in a few moments she would know his fate, and his fate would be hers; for if he were dead, she would surely die.

A young man emerged from the specter of daylight, and Cosette gravitated towards him. Her Marius, alone, had survived the monster! It was theirs to rebuild the world together, to live as they saw fit, to-

Upon closer contact, she realized that the young man was not Marius.

It should have been obvious to her, now that she broke their embrace. Even if the young man before her had not been too tall, and too thin, and with blond hair instead of black, she should have known it was not her Marius by the lack of an electric spark when their bodies collided. In fact, it almost felt warm in that homey way she had heard about but never known; the protective embrace of an older brother.

"You are not Monsieur Pontmercy," said Cosette as soon as she could breathe and look up at him.

"Mademoiselle, get out of here right now," he said, grasping her by the shoulders. "You shouldn't have come; the soldiers are still hunting for survivors from last night. Go home; the barricade is an ugly place for a young lady to be."

"You are one of the students," said Cosette dumbly. "Do you know Marius? What has become of him?"

"He is dead," said the man matter-of-factly. "As are most of the others. Have you seen anyone else around? Did any gendarmes try to stop you?"

"He is dead," Cosette repeated softly, burying her face in her hands. "I knew it. Papa is dead too. They have slaughtered each other. I have been a naughty, wicked girl."

The man's eyes shot a flicker of inquisition at the word "Papa". "Tell me, mademoiselle, what is your father's name?"

Cosette hesitated, not sure if she could trust him. Finally she said, "Fauchelevent."

"Is your name Cosette?"

"Yes."

"Mademoiselle, I know where your father is."

"You do?" Cosette gasped gratefully. "C-can you take me to him?"

"No, mam'selle, it is far too dangerous for you to remain here. Just know that he is safe, although injured, and will be coming home to you soon."

Cosette sighed with relief. So God had granted half of her wish; she had not been a completely evil girl. She would have preferred that He had granted the other half; but she resolved that she would not complain, lest He take this mercy away from her as well.

"Injured? How badly?"

"He has broken a leg. He will recover, but he needs rest. And time."

"Monsieur, I insist upon being allowed to see my father. I am all he has, and seeing me will help him to heal faster. Please, Monsieur, I beg you."

"Mademoiselle, I do not know your father, but if he is half the decent man he seems to be, he would rather keep you safe than see you, if seeing you puts you in danger. So on his behalf, I am asking you to turn around. If you wish, I will escort you back home."

"No," said Cosette, wringing her hands. "It is my fault that he is injured and that Marius is dead. I must make amends for my misdeed, even if it is dangerous for me."

"I do not believe that, mademoiselle. Nothing you could have done would have saved your father or Monsieur Pontmercy. This is not about you. This is an affair between men. The church teaches women to feel guilty for things that are not their fault, but you are not at fault here. It is not your fault that you are beautiful, nor that you are wealthy and well looked after, and you ought to know that Marius died a hero's death on the barricade, and that it is thanks to him and your father that I am still alive."

Cosette was utterly confused by this discourse. The only part she could make sense of was that her father and her fiancé were heroes; that she had known all along.

"And who are you, Monsieur?"

"My name is Alexandre Enjolras. I am- was- the leader of the chapter of Les Amis de l'ABC to which Marius casually belonged. As far as I know, I am the only survivor from said group... Well, technically one of two, but that matters little. Because I admire your courage and your initiative, which is so rare in women of your class, I will take you to your father. But first you must answer me one question."

"Of course, Monsieur."

"Is your father of the National Guard?"

"Yes."

The man paused, scrunching his face to pry for more information. "Do you remember if he was on duty the night of New Year's Eve?"

"You said only one question."

"Please, mademoiselle, it's quite important."

"Since you asked nicely and gave a good reason, I shall tell you. As a matter of fact, yes, he was. But I still don't see what that has to do with anything- "

"Did he say anything to you yesterday before he left about going to spy on insurgents or anything of that sort?"

In her misery, Cosette almost laughed. "You think my father is a spy?" she chuckled. "Him, going behind enemy lines and pretending to be one of the rebels while secretly writing down everything you do and reporting it to his superiors? Well, he's certainly brave enough, but I can't see him betraying a bunch of students. He abhors violence, he only joined the Guard in order to be 'normal', he- " She broke off, afraid that anything more she said would incriminate or give away.

"Yes, that does sound like him," said Enjolras, visibly relieved. "Now come with me, we have little time. We cannot let you be seen by either the Guard nor by some old prude who thinks it improper for a young lady to enter a wineshop."

* * *

Here is what had happened.

Enjolras had waited until everyone else was asleep. By this time, it was almost morning. Éponine remembered that she had not slept since the previous night, and collapsed into a deep sleep from which no recurring grief could wake her. Fauchelevent, exhausted from the effort of barricading the door, had drifted off on his mattress with great ease and fluidity, as if it was the most comfort he had known in a long time. Grantaire was sprawled out across the floor between the wine racks, and Madame Hucheloup was surprisingly adaptive to squatting like a hen in the corner. In the midst of this disjointed reverie, Enjolras had snuck out of the wine cellar and crept up the stairs ever so cautiously, pistol in hand. If there were any survivors, he reasoned, this would be the moment to find them. And if all that was awaiting him up there was a dispatch of gendarmes and certain death, then so be it.

So the reader can imagine his surprise when he stepped out into the open air and, instead of encountering National Guardsmen or his friends, he saw approaching over the horizon a wisp of a young woman who looked exactly like the last memory he had of his mother before she died giving birth to his youngest sister.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I know that lots of fanfic writers give Enjolras a tragic backstory, but I needed a reason for him to bond with Cosette- and a reason for Cosette to be proactive for a change. The last bit was a little Hugo-ian, don't you think? (Hahaha not really, as if)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Some E/R ahead**

* * *

"Papa," gasped Cosette, stumbling down the stairs and into the wine cellar of the Café Musain. Her pupils contracted in the dim light, but somehow it seemed natural to her, as living in the shadow of the Thénardiers during her formative years had taught her to see well in the dark. "Papa, it's me, your daughter. Are you all right?"

"Cosette," moaned Monsieur F., turning his head laboriously toward the ray of light that entered his darkness. Another ray of light entered behind her, and he smiled weakly upon realizing that it was Enjolras. He held her hand in a way that was loose yet firm, protective and endearing, and M. F. did not fear a second time for losing his daughter to another man.

The two embraced in that awkward way known only to relatives, with Cosette kneeling down at her father's side and weeping into his hair, and M. F. reaching up to stroke her chin like a man touching an angel.

"Ma chérie, you shouldn't have come," he whispered to her. "Why didn't you trust me, that I would come home to you?"

"It is you who should not have come, Papa," said Cosette, relief overriding the blame in her voice. "Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me you were going?"

"Because I cannot lie to you, and if I told you the truth you would have made me stay. I had a duty to you, to find Marius; I have succeeded, but it gives me no satisfaction. I must confess, Cosette, that I wished ill upon Sieur Pontmercy, and now you have heard that he is dead. So you and I must both be careful what we wish for."

"I am truly angry, Papa," said Cosette, "but not for the reason you are thinking." And she would have said more had Enjolras not broken in.

"I tried to turn her away, but she insisted quite strongly upon seeing you," he said. "The coast is clear, but not for long. We must remain hidden."

"You," said M. F., staring at Enjolras. The word was grateful and accusatory at the same time. "You should have known better than to bring her here." He hugged Cosette closer. "Ma chérie, this man is the one I saved instead of Marius. You can reprimand me all you want for that; I will offer no excuse, except to say that I do not regret for a moment that this man is living."

Cosette felt a chill, a coldness that enveloped her soul when she first put on mourning clothes for her mother all those years ago. Death was near, and death always meant her past. She looked around the room and nearly screamed when she saw the supine form of Azelma, whom she did not recognize. "That girl was killed on the barricade," she said with a prophetic tremor.

"Cholera," said a hoarse voice from the corner. Cosette nearly jumped, and a hunched form revealed itself like a troll underneath a bridge. "Two days ago. She was my sister."

Cosette looked at the troll, whom she realized was both beautiful and oddly familiar. "You're the one they call the Lark," she said. "You know, Marius is dead. So now neither of us can have him."

Cosette stared at the girl with an open mouth and wide eyes. "What do you mean, 'neither of us'?"

The girl got up, and a chill ran down Cosette's spine. "You think I'd forgotten the Lark, the little bird-girl of Montfermeil? Well, I remember you, 'spoiled little thing'. You're just some bastard who thinks you can waltz through your own meadow in Paris and every young gentleman would be falling in love with you- did it ever occur to you to think of your stepsister, little Éponine? First your shadow and then Pontmercy's? Just another petty thief, a bad seed, a copy of her parents who won't amount to anything- "

"ENOUGH!" roared M. F., and Éponine froze at the stationary figure of the man who lay on the mattress, his neck craned toward her in anger. It had not occurred to her that the gentle old man who had saved Enjolras was capable of shouting so at a girl who might well have been his daughter.

Cosette backed away. Her father had repelled the she-troll; the world was well again. His sword had shielded her once more from the venom of hateful words.

Enjolras stepped between the two young women not a moment too soon. "Mesdemoiselles, I think what Monsieur means to say is that there is no reason for you to fight. The gentleman standing between you is gone; and although his death was a tragedy, perhaps some good may come of it if you make peace. I do not know the history between you two, but I am sure that there is no reason why you should not be civil to each other."

"I wasn't fighting," said Cosette. "I was just standing here, minding my own business, when _she-_ "

"Enjolras is right," said M. F. "I like you so far, Mademoiselle Jondrette, and it would be a pity if you continued to alienate my daughter due to past grudges. Perhaps God has brought you together today in order for you to make up your differences."

"I propose a toast," said a raucous voice in the corner. "To past slights and perceived misunderstandings. Without them, history would be nothing but one group of men killing another for the right reasons, not absurd ones."

"This is Grantaire," said Enjolras to Cosette, blushing heavily. "He is the other survivor I told you about. I hesitated to call him a member of our group because he boasts of the fact that he does not believe in anything." He turned to Grantaire and raised his voice. "Every man is entitled to his own beliefs or lack thereof, but it certainly should not be a point of pride to be an absolute skeptic about everything, especially when all your friends have just died for what they believe."

"Enjolras, leave him alone," protested a quiet voice in the corner. "You know what he did for us."

For the first time, Cosette saw Madame Hucheloup. Her first instinct was to recoils in fear, though she did not quite know why. All she knew was that she had a bad experience with... women who looked like that.

"So now you have met the cast of this bizarre drama," said Grantaire. "Hucheloup, 'Ponine, Apollo, and myself. And of course, you already know the man of mystery." He gestured grandly to Monsieur F.

"Apollo?" Cosette asked quizzically, raising an eyebrow.

"That's what we all call Enjolras. The marble man, if you will. And by 'we all', of course, I mean me. Welcome, mademoiselle, to our midnight charade."

* * *

There was no chance of leaving the wine cellar that day. National Guard footsteps were heard outside starting less than half an hour after Cosette's arrival. Monsieur F. became extremely agitated whenever Cosette left his sight. There was nothing to eat, so they all subsisted on wine or, in the case of M. F., went without. For a chamber pot they shared a small empty wine basket which was placed in the farthest corner beside Azelma's body; necessity and convenience trumped respect for the dead. It was fitting, Éponine thought darkly; the fluids which had doomed her sister in life would be placed by her side in death. Besides all this, it was raining.

Grantaire, for his part, kept his eyes fixed on Enjolras. Between the gratings of the wine racks, he observed the marble man like a sinner who perceived the curé during his confession. He did not drink; drinking was for pleasure and there was no pleasure to be found here. There was only salvation, in the form of Enjolras, and the sweet penance of watching him pace about the door, rifle in hand, like the archangel who was eternally condemned to guard the gates of Eden. He was obsessed; he was infatuated; he was absolutely in love with this man.

At about noon, when they were all hungry, Enjolras left his post and came to sit beside Éponine. Grantaire sensed the intimacy between them, even if Éponine did not. His stomach burned with a pain worse than the worst hangover or overindulgence. His Apollo, his demigod, was in love at last. He, the grand air, was losing him; he had already lost.

"Grantaire, I had no idea you felt that way about Éponine," said Madame Hucheloup, creeping up behind him in that motherly way which all young men find so chilling in the first moments.

"I don't," said Grantaire defensively, and for once it was true. He had looked upon many a gamine with lust, but Éponine was not one of them. "It's just- she's my friend, you know, and I don't exactly feel... comfortable with Enjolras being with her."

Grantaire froze, terrified that Madame Hucheloup would be suspicious of his phrasing. If anyone could understand how he was feeling, it was her. "Well, you know, Enjolras is a fine gentleman," she said, resting her hand on Grantaire's shoulder. "He'll take good care of her, that he will."

_So now she's telling me I'm ugly_ and _I __have no__ chance with her,_ he thought bitterly._ By which she means I have no chance with him. And she's trying to let me down gently because I'm hideous. Fine. She's no one to talk anyway, damn bearded woman._

What Éponine and Enjolras were talking about was, in fact, banal. They could not discuss politics; they could not discuss death; they could not discuss life and love and literacy and art. To tell the truth, even they could not say what they were discussing; only that it was vitally important yet impossibly tender. Everyone in the dismal room had been paired off by some invisible force: Cosette with her father, Apollo with the waitress, and finally him the drunkard with his most dreaded, the creditor. Grantaire feared to approach the light in any form- Enjolras, Cosette, Monsieur F. the father and protector- but in this darkness it was truly terrifying. The only light that did not blind him was Enjolras. His was the only light that was always pure and beautiful.

The day passed tensely without any sign of the National Guard. When everyone else appeared to be asleep, Enjolras made his way over to where Grantaire was sitting and joined him. They had complete privacy; R's corner was down a long, narrow aisle which was well hidden from the rest of the group. Only a thin veil of light allowed itself to pass from one side of the crevice to the other.

"I couldn't help but notice that you have thus far refrained from drinking," Enjolras said, a bit sardonically once he was seated. "Figures- the one time when sobriety doesn't matter."

"You're in love with her," said Grantaire bitterly. "The only one who doesn't see it is you."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a long moment with quizzical eyes. "Show some respect, Grantaire," he admonished. "Pontmercy is barely cold and you're already talking about who's going to replace her in Éponine's heart? I knew you were a cynic, but I never thought you would be so callous towards the memory of one of our friends, especially one who died so valiantly."

"You think I take any pleasure in saying it?" Grantaire demanded. "You think I want you to marry the first shabbily dressed grisette who shows an ounce of interest in your precious cause? Sure, I'm a cynic, but I'm bound by a rigid code of calling it like I see it. Not by my conscience, mind you, but by some fluke of being born without a filter. There has never been anything between the world and my eyes, nor my logic and my passions, nor my brain and my mouth. It's a blessing and a curse. And the way I see it, you, Alexandre, are in love."

Suddenly Grantaire's hands cupped the face of Enjolras, and their dry, chapped lips met one another, and Grantaire's strawberry blond curls fell in Enjolras' startled blue eyes, and Grantaire's hairy knuckles moved sharply against his leader's fair skin, and Enjolras realized in a moment of horror that he was kissing Grantaire back.

"Grantaire, this cannot happen," said Enjolras once he had regained his composure. "It is unfair to Éponine, and- "

"A-ha! You see?" Grantaire pointed at him, not caring whom he awoke with his voice. "You are attracted to me, but you feel a sense of duty towards Éponine. You feel as if you are being unfaithful to her by showing me affection. It is not with my sense of attraction that you take issue, but with my presumption that you are 'available'. And I have just proved my point, purchasing your happiness at the price of my immortal soul." He scoffed in mock righteousness. "You're welcome."

"Grantaire," Enjolras said brokenly, "I must confess that... what just happened was not entirely one-sided."

"I know, Alexandre. I know." Grantaire scooted closer.

"But you are right, that I have... feelings for mademoiselle Jondrette. I can deny it no longer. The only question is, how and when do I tell her?"

"Beats me," said Grantaire. "I've been wondering a similar question for a long time until I answered it just a moment ago."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Did you catch my Jane Eyre reference? Sorry Éponine had to be so nasty to Cosette- but I can't imagine that Éponine is one to forgive and forget easily.**

**Btw: I imagine Grantaire like (an ugly version of) a young George Carlin (my idol)- very witty and funny, not caring who he offends, but ultimately passionate and sympathetic at heart. In my headcanon, his unabashed honesty and all-too-clear grip on reality are mainly what drive him to act as he does.**


	12. Bread and Cake

A/N: Hey guys, sorry for not updating in forever. I didn't forget about you, I promise. I've just been really busy. This chapter was particularly hard for me to write because a lot of things in the plot are converging and soon there's going to be a confession of love from either Enjolras or Éponine. Stay tuned!

Btw: I noticed that there seems to be an unwritten rule that you can't use the words "miserable" or "misery" in a Les Mis fanfic, even if it's not used in the way Hugo meant it. Today I am going to change this, because sometimes there's no other word to describe the phenomenon.

* * *

June 7, 1832

Inspector Javert had escaped from the barricade.

Naturally, after the blast everyone had forgotten about him. He was still tied up in the backroom of the Café Musain when Marius' negligence sent most of Les Amis de l'ABC hurtling into oblivion. He did not have Jean Valjean's strength, tenacity, or experience in extricating himself from bondage, but he was a clever and resourceful policeman, and he knew enough about the ways of convicts to always have a backup plan. When Grantaire was passed out drunk and Éponine had fled the room to search for survivors, Javert had taken advantage of the distraction to cut through the ropes with a knife he had hidden in his jacket pocket and promptly flee the scene. He was able to prove his identity to the National Guard captain, and so was let through their lines without an issue.

What he did not know was that Gavroche, the wily street urchin who had identified him to the insurgents, had borne witness to this escape and watched the Inspector as he traveled up the darkened bypasses of the Rue de la Chanvevrie. The boy had followed Javert with his eyes as far as the dim light allowed him, and by the time he got back to the Musain there was no trace of any of his friends. He came to the dismal conclusion that they had all been killed or captured by the gendarmes in the final battle. So, with great sadness in his heart, he retreated along the obscurest alleys until he arrived back home at the elephant, where he was greeted by the sight of his two sleeping younger brothers.

* * *

As for Enjolras, he dedicated his time to thinking about what Grantaire had said, and even more about what he had done. One man kissing another- it was an idea completely foreign to him, and yet seemed oddly... not wrong. But that troubled him significantly less than his dilemma regarding Éponine. Grantaire was entitled to love whomever he wanted; it was not for Enjolras to judge. But for a man to kiss someone- be it a man or a woman- and then tell that person quite emphatically to be with someone else- it was inconceivable. Enjolras had to admit that Grantaire's actions seemed to have a completely selfless motivation; he had not thought such abnegation possible by an avowed cynic and hedonist. After all, hadn't Éponine done the same thing for Marius and Cosette? He kept searching his mind for another explanation, but all that came to him was that it was some kind of a joke, and that was impossible. Grantaire knew what he risked by kissing another man; treason was one thing, but if word got out of this, it would make him a pariah for the rest of his life- or worse.**  
**

Because it was not possible to speak to Grantaire- and of course Enjolras would take Grantaire's secret to his grave- he talked to Éponine. Even in the dark, he could tell that her face was bright red from the shame of having angered the man who had saved Enjolras' life. She had never felt this kind of shame before. Fear, abject terror at disappointing her father; but that was only if he managed to find out. This was different; it was as if she knew that Monsieur F. was a great moral authority to her. Her elbows rested on her knees, and in the middle of this cavern was her head.

"Why did you save me?" asked Enjolras, when he was seated down beside her.

Éponine took a minute to remember what he was talking about. Then she shrugged and said, "I had a death wish. What did you expect me to say?"

"Until today, I thought I knew the answer. I thought you had been brave and selfless, but now I see that that is only part of the truth. I believed it because I wanted to, and I told everyone else the same story. But being trapped in here, deprived of food or sunlight, and the experience of witnessing all my friends give their lives on the barricade- somehow all the hunger and delirium has made me realize that I had been unfair to you, 'Ponine. I was just another ignorant bourgeois who bought into the myth of the virtuous peasant, but I never saw you as a human being. For that, I apologize sincerely."

"Don't", Éponine said brashly. "You never hurt me, and that's more than I can say about most people. When you've been as poor as I have, words and intentions mean jack squat next to what you actually do. And whether or not you realize it, you saved my life."

"I condemned you to starvation," said Enjolras. "A most painful and undignified death, and no way of being remembered."

"I would've been condemned anyway. This way, at least, you gave me a chance. A chance to be part of something good." She sighed. "A chance to understand M'sieur Marius."

"Are you _still _thinking about him?" Enjolras almost screamed in his shortened temper. But he lacked the energy to be angry, so instead he said, "That was a very admirable goal. We must all strive to understand each other and be unafraid of what we might find." Even now, he still spoke in platitudes, and it still frustrated her.

"I didn't feel anything when Marius died," Éponine volunteered suddenly. "I don't feel anything now. I know I should, but I guess all the grief just got sucked out of me when 'Zelma died. Compared to her, Marius was nothing. I feel stupid and selfish for wanting him at all, when my own sister had just died. I think I must be going to hell."

"There is no hell except the ones we create," intoned Enjolras.

"In our own minds."

"And for each other. Society is a necessary construction, but when created improperly it can be hell on earth for the very people it is meant to help prosper." He drew a thoughtful breath. "People do terrible things when they do not understand that terrible things are being done to them."

"My pa made his own choices, M'sieur," said Éponine defensively. Then, more calmly, she added, "But I can't help thinking things would be better if we could all just say exactly how we feel."

"I couldn't agree more, 'Ponine. Honesty between citizens is an essential component in any republic."

"And one on one."

"Yes, that too. I have always tried to treat my friends with utmost honesty. I think it shows great respect. Combeferre and I- " But he couldn't bring up Combeferre because it hurt worse than any incision from the medical student's surgical knife.

"I haven't been honest with Marius," said Éponine dismally. "Or you. I regret it now. I led you on to think that I was different from my family."

"But you are," said Enjolras. "You're kind, and smart, and funny, and caring, and quite dark at times, but it's oddly refreshing, and you've grown quite beautiful since I met you... "

"That was your doing, 'Sieur. I had nothing to do with that."

"Maybe not. But it's just icing on the cake." And slowly, he leaned down and forward in the dark to kiss her.

Éponine's lips chapped easily, and never were they drier than on the 10th of June in that miserable wine cellar. But when she kissed Enjolras, the flakes didn't come off anymore. The cuts and bruises felt warm as if they were healing, and her slack jaw, the spaces in between her remaining teeth, the smell and rotten taste of cheap alcohol, all faded away in the comfort of this man. Her poverty-stricken mouth felt like a tiny cave, in which she allowed Enjolras to join her and whispered, "Welcome to my world." He furnished her cave with all the wonderful things she had been missing- a cozy davenport, a plush chair to sleep on, the wafting aroma of bread and cake to tell them that supper was ready in the kitchen, the moist, cool air that filled Paris with hope for a brighter future on a languid summer day.

It was the third kiss Enjolras had bestowed in the course of his life, and the first to a living person. There would be many more to come.

This kiss took place in a rare time window of lucidity, in the scientific process of starvation, in which the involved parties were hungry enough to be open to the slightest sensation, but still enough in touch with reality and consciousness to feel joy and gladness in things that were not to be their salvation. It occurred not a moment too soon or too late. Hunger had made them equals; nothing could fault them now.

Enjolras drew back, with the familiar feeling that he had done something right, spoken some truth that could not go unsaid. Éponine looked up at him with utter trust in her brown eyes, a look which had been reserved for Marius until today, but without the naïve schoolgirl longing. Grantaire had not given him false counsel. This girl felt something for him too.

"Alexandre," whispered Éponine, in a voice that was hoarse yet charming. It was the first time she had ever called him by his first name.

"I hope you do not think that was inappropriate of me," said Enjolras seriously. "I am a hypocrite, I know, for praising and defending Pontmercy and then, so soon after his death- "

"He had his chance with me, M'sieur. That's the way I see it." She coughed airily and shrugged. "He kept his honor, I suppose, and died with the memory of Cosette, being faithful to her- I never knew why rich folks set such a store on such things, but you ain't like other rich folks I've met, M'sieur. You're practical enough to not care about stupid things like family connections, but you're just about the most honorable person I've ever met. I know you'd never take advantage of me the way _he _did." By 'he', of course, she meant Montparnasse.

"It's good to see you standing up for yourself, 'Ponine," said Enjolras. "But I notice you're still calling me 'Monsieur'."

"I'm sorry, Alexandre," she laughed. "You know, that's a good name for you. I've always been partial to it."

"It means 'warrior' or 'defender'," explained Enjolras. "My father named me after Alexandre Le Grand, the infamous Macedonian conqueror. Of course, I later took rather a disliking to emperors and began to go only by my surname. But you have opened my eyes to its virtue once again, and I think that I can now be proud to be an Alexandre."

"That's enough, pretty boy," teased Éponine. "Just because I _could_ have been a student doesn't mean I want to hear about old Macedonian emperors."

Enjolras jostled her shoulder playfully. "Fair enough, ma chérie."

In the corner, Cosette nudged her father, who smiled vaguely with an almost mythical twinkle in his eyes. He was equally happy at the magnanimous thought of two young people whom he had brought together showing their first signs of a loving repertoire, and the selfish fact that neither of those people was Cosette.

Meanwhile, Grantaire turned away so that Madame Hucheloup wouldn't see him cry.

* * *

Three days later, Madame Hucheloup decided that the time had come.

The refugees had not eaten since entering the wine cellar, and Éponine was starting to look as she had before Madame Hucheloup took her in. Still, she was faring better than Enjolras. Grantaire did his best to sleep off his hunger, and used his old jackets as a blanket and pillow. Monsieur F. cuddled close to Cosette, and both seemed to be at peace with their fate. The National Guard footsteps were still heard above, but every hour they grew fainter. The wine supply dwindled.

Cannibalism was not considered an option by any of them. Even if they had wanted to, they knew that the cholera could be transmitted by eating diseased flesh. Madame Hucheloup hinted that she would be willing to sacrifice herself for the others, but none of them were willing to kill the little old woman who had saved them, even though her meat could have lasted them a week or more.

"We'll starve to death if we stay down here," Enjolras and Madame Hucheloup agreed. "We have to risk leaving. If we wait any longer, we'll be too weak to escape."

"I concur," said Monsieur F., who could now get up and walk a little bit as a demonstrated necessity. "I would be content to remain here, but for my daughter's sake I must gather my strength to join the rest of you. I must see her to safety, no matter what the cost."

But none of them seemed able to muster a plan.

Luckily, salvation came in the form of Gavroche. The scrawny twelve-year-old appeared at the grating near the street on the morning of June 10th, three and a half days into their ordeal. He bore with him two (undoubtedly stolen) loves of bread.

"The coast is clear now," said Gavroche in an urgent whisper. "Come with me, I'll get you to safety. M'sieur Fauchelevent an' 'is daughter can't go back to Rue de l'Homme Armé. The cops are looking' for 'im an' m'sieurs 'Jolras and 'Taire. If they catch you- " He drew his finger across his neck to represent the guillotine.

"How did you find us?" Enjolras asked.

"Ah, 'Parnasse knows 'is way around. Jus' last week 'e escaped from prison- 'eard that there was some kind of a revolution going' on an' figured it'd be a good time to make 'is getaway, when the cops were distracted. First thing 'e did after 'e got out was come an' find me. 'E asked me why I was so upset, an' I said it was because all my friends 'ad been killed at the barricade. 'E said, I bet you're wrong, I bet some of them are still alive. So 'e went an' came looking' round the Rue de la Chanvevrie, an' of course the first place 'e looks is the Café Musain. I suppose 'e must've seen you without you seein' 'im, 'cause 'e ran straight back to the elephant an' told me to leave right away 'cause 'e found you and 'Ponine. But I didn't want to leave until I 'ad a decent present to give you. So 'ere you go." He handed them the loaves through the iron bars.

"Montparnasse is a mercenary," said Enjolras, who, despite his indignation, took the loaves with an animalism and desperation that he had never before displayed in his pampered existence. "He always expects either money or blood to fall into his hands."

"It won't cost you a sou, I promise," said Gavroche confidently. "Bein' an urchin 'as its 'idden benefits, an' one of them is knowin' folks who can get a favor done for you. We 'ave our own code of honor, that we do."

"Still," said Enjolras, "you are young and easily trust people you shouldn't. I am older and have more experience, and I say that Montparnasse is bad news."

"The way you trusted Javert?"

Enjolras had stuffed all of his torn-off piece of bread into his mouth when he froze silent. The child was right; there was no denying it.

"I know 'e ain't the most respectable of folks," said the gamin, "but 'e's the best I could do on such short notice. Anyway, 'e knows the city inside an' out, an' 'e's got lots of experience evadin' the cops. An' 'e'll do anythin' ya like if 'e's well-paid."

"I don't like this arrangement one bit," said Enjolras, folding his arms. "You know what he did to 'Ponine. Gavroche, he's just trying to trick you and trap all of us."

"Beggars can't be choosers, 'Jolras. We have to take our chances." This was Éponine. It broke Enjolras' heart that she seemed to be submitting herself to a man who had treated her so shoddily for so long. Comfortable as they had now grown with each other, Montparnasse was still a forbidden subject between the two. By mutual agreement, Éponine didn't tell about their relationship and Enjolras didn't ask.

"Well, this is a fine lot of gratitude I'm gettin' for me trouble," said Gavroche coolly. "I'm on the very short list of buggers that 'Parnasse trusts, an' I can't very well tell 'im that me friends refused a service from 'im jus' 'cause they didn't like 'is rap. 'E'd take it out on me."

Gavroche was a very clever boy, Enjolras realized, trying to manipulate the kind and gentle and soft-hearted old man into renouncing his honor and owing a life debt to a known murderer. All eyes turned to Monsieur F. for his judgment.

"I will go," he said solemnly. "I promised Cosette I would think of my survival. Any of you would be welcome to join me, but I would leave such a choice up to each individual here. I would not presume to act as the leader of this group; that role belongs to Monsieur Enjolras."

"I will go as well," said Enjolras finally, taking Éponine's hand. "Perhaps we will live to fight another day."

"I'll stay," said Madame Hucheloup from the corner. "The boy says the coast is clear, and they'll only be looking for folks who were involved in the fighting. Besides, someone has to tend the bar. We could have been robbed blind and not even known it."

Their decisions all made, and their goodbyes said to the good Madame, Grantaire handed Enjolras his pocketknife. The latter raised the blade to the innermost bar and began cutting away. From his side, Gavroche sliced along with Montparnasse's infamous knife until the bar had been completely severed off. That done, Gavroche pulled up Éponine by her hands, then watched for policemen as everyone else was pulled out of the hole one by one. Everyone had gotten a mouthful of bread, but they were all dying for more.

Without a word, Gavroche stole nimbly down the streets. The others unquestioningly followed him. Periodically he froze to turn his head around the corner, to see if any gendarmes were on patrol, and a few times he held up a hand for the others to stay hidden until they had passed. The sun was rising in the Parisian sky, making the city more dangerous for the refugees by the minute. Cosette and Grantaire supported Fauvent loosely on either side, even though he insisted that he could walk on his own. It was during this fresh ordeal that it occurred to Éponine that she might never see her sister's body again, or give her a proper burial. She shed a tear, even though her body had no salt to spare for it.

"So where are we headed?" asked Grantaire fearfully, when they had come to a quick stopping place in a narrow alley.

Gavroche winced. "The Seine, of course. Via the sewer."

* * *

A/N: The geography? The medical stuff? I have no idea.


	13. We Are Judges, Not Assassins

A/N: Hello, my loyal minions- I mean, readers! Sorry for being so slow to update- I have no excuse except that I was busy reading other people's fics- I mean, doing productive things and having a life. I just haven't been feeling the muse much lately. Anyway, here's the exciting climax, part one!

* * *

Montparnasse was waiting for them at the bottom of the ladder. He wore his favorite top hat in whose brim a red rose was nestled, its thorns puncturing the black ribbon which encircled the long felt cylinder. He smiled at them with that white-toothed grin which could only be achieved by the most toxic concoction of paints and bleaches that a gangster could procure.

"So _this_ is the motley crew I've been told so much about," said the dandy with a tip of his hat in the group's general direction. "Welcome to the underworld, mes amis. Literally." He flashed a grin at Éponine. "I believe you and I have met before, my dear."

Éponine's blood curdled at the sight of her ex-beau, even more than from the nauseating smell of the sewer water. "Look, 'Parnasse, just get us the hell to wherever you're taking us. We don't have time for small talk." She took Enjolras' arm to signal that she was taken. Enjolras, meanwhile, couldn't decide if he was more taken aback by Montparnasse's impeccable speech, his dapper appearance, or his refined yet hostile words and manners. This man did not fit into any category that he had in his mind. This was not how a poor man was supposed to act. But if he were rich, then why had he chosen this life of crime? Enjolras decided to hold his peace for the moment and take the whole situation as a learning opportunity.

"Ah, I see my discourse on the occasion of last New Year's Eve has proven oddly prophetic," said the gangster with an ironic chuckle. "Or perhaps it was a self-fulfilling prophecy that the two of you would get together. People _do _tend to take my advice, I must say. And besides, you fit so perfectly, the no-account low-class drunkard whore and the fluffy bourgeois pretty-boy."

_Who's calling who a pretty boy?_

Enjolras stared at Éponine with wide eyes. So the rumors about her had been true. He thanked God that he had been able to rescue her when he did, but at the same time was disappointed that she was no longer a virgin, in her body or her heart. Open-minded as he was, his upbringing had undeniably endowed him with certain prejudices, and he feared that with Éponine there might no longer be anything left for him, he who had always kept himself so pure in body and soul.

Stop it, Alexandre, he told himself harshly. That's exactly what Montparnasse wants you to think. You're a gentleman, and that means you have to stand up for your woman, no matter what.

"You will not call mademoiselle Jondrette by such names," he said defiantly. "If there is any shame what she is or was, it rests with you and her father, for turning her into a woman of the night. In any just society, you would be behind bars for at least five years for what you did to her and her sister, the dearly departed Azelma."

"Tsk, tsk," said Montparnasse, clicking his tongue in time to the flickings of his knife. "Haven't you ever heard the maxim, don't bite the hand that feeds you? Apparently not- rich boy fighting against the monarchy, who ever heard of such a ridiculous thing? It's only fair to warn you that I have an itchy trigger finger, and if you didn't come so highly recommended by Gavroche here, I'd have half a mind to shoot you here and now. I doubt anyone would miss you, and I hear there's a reward for rebel leaders dead or alive."

"That's the same threat you used on me last time," said Enjolras. "It didn't work then, so what makes you think it'll work now?"

"Because," said Montparnasse, smiling smugly. "This time, I have 'Ponine on my side."

"She's not afraid of you anymore," said Enjolras, gripping the girl's hand. "She never loved you at all. So back off." He started to push his way past Montparnasse.

"Where do you think _you're_ going?" Montparnasse's slimy hand reached out to restrain him, then made his voice sickeningly sweet. "Come on, rich boy, I thought we were a team. You wouldn't abandon your friends, would you?"

Enjolras gulped. "I would _never_ abandon my friends," he said, looking away, but with determination in his voice.

"Then it's settled. You're coming with us. But don't get too far ahead, blondie, 'cause only 'Parnasse knows where the sinkholes are."

"Cosette," said Monsieur F., whispering to his daughter out of Montparnasse's earshot, "this is where you and I must go our separate ways. You have seen me to this place, and for that I am forever grateful. But this foolishness of yours has to end. Go to Gillenormand's house immediately and wait for me there. Do not tell him anything except that Marius is dead. You may present yourself as Pontmercy's widow, if you like. I want you to know that, if he had lived, I would have given you my permission to marry him. Go, my child. This is not goodbye. I will see you again soon."

Cosette nodded, a tear in her eye. "Yes, papa."

* * *

Their group of six had been whittled down to four and had risen back up to six again. They treaded through the dark sewers with great caution, taking care to follow exactly in Montparnasse's footsteps. The young dandy stepped nimbly from one safe spot to the next, and Éponine noticed how odd it was that he didn't seem to mind the fact that his trousers and greatcoat were getting completely covered in filth. Only she and Gavroche weren't gagging from the overpowering smell, from having lived in it for so long.

"Look, a piece of bread!" Grantaire exclaimed suddenly, lunging his hand into the filth.

"Grantaire, don't! It's not worth it." Enjolras took Grantaire's arm and looked at him sternly. "That thing is more disease than bread."

"I have a right to choose the manner of my death," said Grantaire stubbornly. "And I choose to die swiftly of an infection rather than slowly and painfully of hunger like a common peasant. In any case, it doesn't matter because I won't make it out of this sewer alive anyway."

"Don't say that, Grantaire. You may not care if you live or die, but I do. And I'll be damned if my I let my friend commit suicide by bread poisoning. I think all the alcohol has damaged your system enough."

Grantaire shrugged and dropped the bread. Better to starve than to incur his leader's wrath yet again. _The kiss_ still hovered over them like the dank, stale, musty air in the sewer that refused to go away. Grantaire regretted nothing, only that he had done this to Éponine, his new best friend. Knowing Enjolras, he would feel duty-bound to tell her about _the kiss_ and his complicity therein, and the girl had already had her heart broken and her mind confused by another man.

Meanwhile, Fauchelevent was getting along surprisingly well, invigorated at having seen his daughter again and determined once more to make it back to her alive. Hucheloup and Grantaire had made a splint for his leg out of the wood from an old wine cabinet, and although it made his walk quite stiff, he was able to go fast enough to avoid holding them up. It seemed to Enjolras that he was used to overcoming such impediments. Enjolras couldn't help looking behind him periodically, out of equal parts fascination at the old man's vigor and worry that it would give out.

Hours passed thusly, with little to no conversation. Grantaire had struck a match and held it aloft to light their way, even though he risked losing his balance. When the match burned out, he simply reached into his vest pocket and lit another one. To everyone's great relief, Montparnasse kept silent, concentrating on finding the path. Enjolras even began to trust the man without realizing it. This was stupid, of course- had he forgotten who the man was, what he had done? How he had robbed him at knifepoint and repeatedly abused Éponine? How could he have shot an insurgent and a soldier fighting for his country, and let this monster go free? Only a man as optimistic as Enjolras, with as much education on sociology and faith in human nature, could foresee a potential change in the fellow. If Éponine represented those for whom he fought, then Montparnasse did just as well.

Éponine tugged at his sleeve. "It's a trap," she whispered suddenly, as if reading his mind. "We have to get out of here."

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Enjolras whispered back without thinking. "But you didn't listen."

"This is one of my father's hangouts," she informed him. "I've been here before. It's a dead end, you need a key to get out. 'Parnasse is leading us to the Patron-Minette. I think he wants revenge for what we did to him on New Year's Eve."

Montparnasse was several paces ahead of them, but Enjolras looked nervously to see if the dandy's catlike ears were picking up on their conversation. "We have nothing of value with us," he whispered calmly. "Your friend must surely know that. What could...they want with us?" Six years after moving to Paris, gangs were still largely a foreign concept to him. Charming, naïve country boy, Éponine thought, forgetting the bourgeios-to-a-penny thing that she herself had been as a little girl in Montfermeil.

They passed by a ladder. Éponine stepped toward it discreetly and beckoned for Enjolras to do the same. Enjolras shook his head. He pointed to Montparnasse's dark figure ahead of them. For the first time since they entered, the man was looking back.

"That was our last chance," Éponine informed him dryly.

Enjolras, never one to let another have the last word, persisted. "We can't just go out into the streets again, 'Ponine. They'd find us. And this time, the police won't be on our side."

She would have argued again, but the water level was rising. Éponine picked up Gavroche, although he resisted out of pride, saying he was too big to be carried and didn't need anyone taking care of him, and lifted him onto her shoulders so he could keep his head above the muck. Grantaire, who was on the short side, drew a deep breath and covered his nose and mouth with the bottom of his blouse. All of them held their breath as the waves became large and unpredictable. The sound of rushing water told them that they were approaching the Seine.

Suddenly they heard a loud cry from behind them. They turned around to see that Fauvent had slipped and fallen into the murky water. Enjolras and Grantaire lunged toward him, grabbing onto his arms just as his face disappeared beneath the grime.

"A fontis," said Montparnasse, staring behind him with bland pity. "I tried to warn you about those."

"For God's sake, 'Parnasse, don't just stand there, help him!" Éponine shouted. Her grip on Gavroche's legs tightened, and her voice echoed against the walls.

Enjolras found the back of Fauvent's shirt and tugged up as hard as he could, using his other hand to brace himself. "We need to form a human chain!" he shouted desperately. "He's in up to his knees. It's going to take all our strength to get him out. And hurry, he can't breathe for much longer!"

Éponine gave a hand to Enjolras, and Gavroche clutched her head tighter as she leaned in towards him. Their hands fit instantly in a knot, like the roots of trees or a rope that holds a ship at harbor. Their sinewy arms became doubly strong, and when the blue of Enjolras' sky met the brown of Éponine's earth, a silence took place that was profound and like a dull hum blocking their ears. It was underground and underwater and from the depths of the mud and the soul, and time stopped as it does for a rocking vessel or in the eye of a storm.

Éponine was weak, but her bones were lithe. In the midst of her reverie, she did not notice that Grantaire had taken her other hand and Gavroche was leaning against him. Grantaire was by far the strongest of the three, and his fists that were made for boxing held fast to Éponine as his body anchored their human chain from a cobblestone.

Enjolras felt his own toes dangling at the edge of the precipice, but he felt for underneath Fauvent's chin and pulled upwards to bring that head to the surface. Montparnasse helped superficially by pulling back on Enjolras' shoulder, but Éponine could tell that he wasn't using nearly all of his strength.

Finally Fauvent sputtered, and his injured leg rose up out of the fontis and took a wide step to safer ground. Enjolras wiped his face, and slowly Fauvent made his way to the edge of the sewer path, where he caught his breath.

"I'm all right," he assured them. "It's not the first time I've almost suffocated in a filthy subterranean tomb." The others decided not to ask.

"No thanks to you, 'Parnasse," said Grantaire bitterly.

Éponine noticed a flash of recognition in Fauvent's eyes, and when she looked at her ex-beau, she saw it in him as well. She expected one of them to speak, but it seemed that they both had thought better of the idea.

Suddenly an ominous presence loomed over them, and Éponine did not realize that there had been light until something began to block it. By the smell, she knew that it was her father. Only he had that unique combination of odors that was so distinctive in the midst of any swine hole, those of alcohol and chewing tobacco and other smells that were so common yet so pervasive in him.

"Well, well, well," said Jondrette, standing at the gate that led into the Seine. "'Parnasse, I see you've come with the loot."

"Yes, papa." Montparnasse nodded deferentially. Enjolras had not thought him capable of such humility. He supposed it was a positive thing, that that deference could be transferred to something noble and good someday. But it still chilled his blood to witness, as if he were spying on some ritual of the Freemasons or one of the organized Sicilian families.

"Claquesous did a good job of sniffing you out," Jondrette said to Enjolras smugly. "I hear you made a martyr out of him. I know how much you revolutionaries love your martyrs."

"What in God's name are you talking about?" asked Enjolras angrily.

"Le Cabuc? The insurgent?" Jondrette laughed. "Nah, you wouldn't remember. He trailed you to the Rue de la Chanvevrie and, I must say, did an excellent job. He died for us, 'Parnasse, just remember that."

"If your story is true, which I highly doubt," Enjolras began, "then why did your cohort feel it necessary to shoot an innocent civilian who was watching the battle from the window?"

"Claquesous is an artist," Jondrette replied. "We had to let him take a few creative liberties."

"You sicken me," said Enjolras, not knowing what else to say.

Suddenly two other shadows appeared behind Jondrette, and Éponine recognized the forms of Babet and Guelemer, the men she called, respectively, godfather and uncle. They each carried a pistol which they drew out of the holsters in their jackets at the same time.

"'Ponine," said Jondrette soothingly, "I'm so glad to see you again, so glad you're safe. Come to papa, ma chérie. These people won't get you anywhere but trouble. You know, I broke out of jail just to see you. Come to me, and we can be a family again."

It was then that three shots rang out, and the three notorious gangsters pitched forward. Éponine let out a horrified gasp, and Montparnasse cringed to his very boots. They exchanged a glance, for the first time in their lives, that was like brother and sister coming of age together by experiencing a terrible tragedy. The light revealed itself, and three police officers in trench coats came from the other side of the grate, blocking the sun once more. Their leader was a man with a black trench coat and silver sideburns. The original danger had been replaced by another one.

"Fauvent, you are a National Guard. Do something!"

Jean Valjean had never been so happy to see Javert.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for staying with me thus far! So that was part one of the cheesy climax! Any and all reviews are appreciated (within reason), and remember, it's never too late to go back and review a previous chapter. I read every single review that comes my way, and respond to a lot of them. Headcanons and requests would also be awesome to receive!

I think that in his own way, Thénardier really did care about Éponine. He doesn't like sending her and Azelma on all these dangerous errands, but he does it because everyone has to do their part in keeping the family alive. It's a kind of ethics, and he certainly does his part, so he's not a hypocrite. If you think about it, he risks his life by going into the sewers to scavenge for coins after the barricade falls. It's just that he wants Éponine to fit in with the kind of people she'll have to spend her life with, and he's angry when she doesn't because he's afraid for her future, so he lashes out at her.


	14. When the Night is Over

A/N: I don't own Les Miz. If I did, "Bring Him Home" would have been "Bring Them Home" and Cosette would have gotten at least two solo lines in "One Day More".

To recap: For my benefit and yours. Because I tend to forget plots when I haven't read a fic in a while. (BTW sorry for not posting in forever- school starting again and all!) I really hope that you'll think this chapter was worth the wait.

Éponine saves Enjolras when her father's gang tries to kidnap him on New Year's Eve. That was Chapter One. The next morning, Enjolras comes to bail her out and gives her and Azelma jobs at the Café Musain. Over several months, Éponine begins to connect to the cause and draws closer to Enjolras as she loses hope that Marius will fall for her. Just before the rebellion starts, Azelma and Mme. Jondrette both die in a bout of cholera. Éponine volunteers to help with loading guns for the cause. Everything goes as it did in the book until Marius accidentally blows up the barricade. Enjolras is the only survivor because Valjean jumps on top of him at the last minute. Éponine and Enjolras take Valjean, who has broken a leg, into the wine cellar of the Cafe Musain. They spend three days there waiting out the National Guard, with no food and only wine to drink, and Cosette comes down to visit Valjean. Finally Gavroche comes and tells them that the coast is clear. He leads them to the sewer, where Montparnasse is waiting for them. So now it's Gavroche, Montparnasse, Éponine, Enjolras, Valjean, and Grantaire heading through the sewer. Suddenly they get into a confrontation with the Patron-Minette, who have escaped from prison. But the police shoot them from behind, and guess who's at the head of said police? You guessed it- Javert.

* * *

"Fauvent, you are a National Guard. Do something!"

Fauchelevent froze, backing his face into the shadows in the hopes that Javert would not recognize him. Not now, not after everything he'd been through. Not when these children were depending on him. He didn't know what he had been so worried about- after all, Cosette had never been in any real danger. But he had to go on living, not only for Cosette now, but also for Éponine and Monsieur Enjolras. He didn't care if they fell in love or got married; first things first, they must both get out of this predicament alive. Luckily, the Inspector did not seem to have heard his name. With a renewed sense of purpose, Fauvent pinned himself to the wall, willing his breath to make his chest rise no more than the width of a sheet of paper.

It was Grantaire, finally, who acted. But no one who saw it could say for sure if it had been acting. His lips parted, his eyes glazed over, his head tilted toward the dank brick arch, his knees buckled, and he collapsed wearily into the muddy water.

"Monsieur l'Inspecteur," said Enjolras, catching Grantaire by the underarms at just the right moment, "my friend must be taken from here as soon as possible. He is starving to death and needs food immediately. Corpses can wait, but this man will soon be a corpse if you do not grant him this mercy."

How sweet Grantaire thought it to be held in Enjolras' arms, to be kept from falling by that marble demigod! But even sweeter was the knowledge that he had taken one for the team, that he had a deed of which he could be truly proud. It was his quick thinking that had bought Enjolras some time. And now it was time for Apollo to work his magic.

"He is an insurgent," said Javert flatly.

Enjolras shook his head. "He is a victim, Inspecteur. His only crime was foolishness. He thought that by fasting for three days, he could achieve a 'higher state of drunkenness'. I tried to dissuade him, but he is terribly stubborn. There are many foolish and self-destructive young men out there, but these things are merely a phase and should not constitute a death sentence."

Javert eyed him skeptically. "And I suppose it was your friend's foolishness and self-destruction that led all of you to follow him into the sewers?"

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak, but he knew it was futile; he was a poor liar. Éponine was much better. He was caught; they were all as good as captured. After a pause, Javert's eyes became steely once more, in contrast to the silvery hair of his old adversary, who was meanwhile readying himself to come to the children's aid should they need him. He motioned for his subordinates to follow him into the sewer to carry out the arrests.

Just then, three shots rang out, reverberating throughout the sewer walls. On top of the bodies of the Patron-Minette, there appeared three fresh bodies, those of the Inspector and his henchmen. The motion of the pistol from its concealed leather holster had been so quick, so smooth, that even Enjolras could not help but feel a twinge of admiration and jealousy. As they fell, three bright spots of blood wetted the gray-black overcoats worn by the officers, and a slow, relieved smile crept up on the Inspector's face, with the righteous knowledge that, although he had been cheated at the barricade, he was yet about to die in the line of duty. If anyone had been able to glimpse Montparnasse's eyes in that moment, he would have seen a look of pure, intense hatred. Red, the color of his lips and his rage. Black, the color of his hair, his clothes, his eyes and his soul.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Montparnasse, turning down another branch in the tunnel. "From now on, I stay out of your way, and you mind your own business."

* * *

"I can't believe we owe our lives to Montparnasse," said Enjolras when it was all over. "I can't believe we're just going to let him go, to protect him."

They were eating the most glorious meal they had ever eaten, at the home of one of Fauvent's "connections". Grantaire was in the next room with Fauvent, and the latter had been well set back on the road to recovery; the doctor said that at his age, he just couldn't heal like he used to. Still too weak to move from bed, the survivors gulped down their food without any shame. Enjolras, especially, had never thought that his everyday food could taste this thoroughly gratifying and delicious. He could stay up here forever. They had bathed themselves the night before, but how does one ever feel completely clean again? How does one rub off all the grime of an entire unwanted city?

"I know," Éponine agreed. "I never thought he had it in him to kill a cop, much less three. But I guess if a nice boy like you can do it, then certainly _he _can. And he doesn't seem to think we owe him anything, so we should just take that as a blessing. But we shouldn't hang around him for long, in case he decides to call in a favor."

"He gave them a martyr, you know," said Enjolras.

"I think they already have enough martyrs to last them a while," Éponine whispered. "Forgive me- I don't mean to insult your friends at all, to trivialize them, but... " her voice trailed off.

"He _did _do it in his own self-interest," added Enjolras. "I suppose the old dictum is true: 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend'. I hoped it would never come to this, covering up for murderers, but I guess I'd better get used to hanging around thugs and criminals if I'm going to live the rest of my life as an outlaw."

"You're not an outlaw the way _we _were," said Éponine. "You were a student, so you had special protection. You think it's the same, being a gangster and a revolutionary, but it's not. You had a choice, and you could turn away any time you wanted. You had the luxury of caring, choosing to care. Me and Montparnasse- I hated him, but I think I also cared for him a little. We had a connection, y'know. Part of me even wants to find him, to help him out, but I know that would be stupid. He's never needed anyone, but I think... maybe... now he might."

"I don't think it's the same at all," Enjolras contradicted her, steering the conversation back to her original point. "I despise gangs as much as the police do. I think they are parasites of civilization. The difference is, I don't think they're the _worst _danger there is, because I take the time to care about where and why and how they come to be. I would rather associate with the monarchy than with the Patron-Minette. But nobody _wants _to be in a gang. They may think they do, but they don't. No one enjoys constantly being in danger from the police. Don't you remember what I said to your father on New Year's Eve, the first time I met you? I feel sorry for him, 'Ponine. I truly do. For all of them. I detest the greedy poor, but I detest the greedy rich more, for they are what cause the greedy poor to exist. Always remember, you have much greater things to fear than a bandit dressed in a rotting blouse and trousers. Like a bandit dressed in a top hat and a fancy cravat. I hope I have taught you enough to recognize this disparity, that things are not always what they seem."

"I'm an orphan," Éponine said softly, reflecting. "I felt like an orphan for the longest time before I actually became one. I never thought I would miss my parents, but I do. Just a month ago, we were still a family of four. Now we're a family of one."

Suddenly they heard a faint knocking at the window. The faces of Gavroche and Montparnasse appeared behind them, practically blended into the dull, dusty pane. Their eyes were dead and expressionless, their cheeks dirty and hollow. Enjolras, whose nerves were still very much on edge from the battle, jumped about a foot in the air at these surreal apparitions. Oh, what Éponine would have given for Marius to be alive, so she could comfort him when he was haunted by the ghosts of his dead friends! Really? Still?

_What's wrong? You look as if you've seen a ghost._

"Pardon the interruption, but I do believe we overheard you talking about us," said the tall, lanky dandy, opening the window from outside with a key that he had procured through questionable means.

"How long have you been spying on us?" Éponine demanded, turning around swiftly to face him.

"I thought you told us to stay the hell out of your life," Enjolras added indignantly.

"I don't always keep my promises, pretty boy. 'Ponine must have told you that, if nothing else about me. If not, I'm very disappointed in her." He placed his arms akimbo and stuffed his hands into the wide pockets of a magician, and stared sharply at his former mistress. "But that doesn't mean I don't expect others to keep theirs. By the way, 'Ponine, didn't anyone ever tell you it's improper for a bourgeois girl to be alone in a bedroom with her intended?"

The tension between them was that of two vultures circling the same prey. Enjolras was a charming man capable of being terrible, but Montparnasse was a terrible man capable of being charming. In the meantime, as it had for the past several weeks, Enjolras' heart beat in a rhythm of three that echoed the beating of the drums: É-po-nine, É-po-nine, É-po-nine.

Gavroche looked at the girl whom he now knew to be his sister- looked up, even though they were nearly the same height- and bowed his head. "It's all right, 'Ponine," Gavroche assured him. "'E don't mean no 'arm. I'm the one what found this place for 'im, an' I'll be out of your 'air just as soon as I can. 'Parnasse is goin' to show me back to me little brothers now. They must be waitin' for me an' worried sick. I 'ope they 'aven't resorted to anythin' foolish an' gettin' themselves into trouble without me to get 'em out of it."

Montparnasse put his hand on Éponine's shoulder. "I am your family," he said. "I always have been. You're like a sister to me, 'Ponine."

Éponine shoved his hand away. "How can you say that, after what you did to me?" she growled. "Even if there wasn't all...that between us, I wouldn't want you for a brother. You're mean and cruel, and I'd rather be alone than have anything more to do with you."

"Fine," said Montparnasse carelessly, releasing her in a way that simultaneously suggested power. "I can have any gamine I want, you know, or even a grisette or two. Pimping is a good business, really pays. When I make something of myself, you'll be sorry you bet on this bourgeois-to-a-penny thing." He shrugged and tossed a scrap of paper at her. "I'll leave 'Roche's address just in case Fauvent wants to know where he can find him."

They slipped out the same way they had slipped in, like two filthy shadows, without a sound. Éponine couldn't believe she was almost sorry to see them go. Yet out of concern, she saw them down the shingled roof until they were out of sight. She did not regard Gavroche as being separate from Montparnasse; one was a shadow of the other and that was all he could ever be. Had she bothered to open the note, to read it before handing it off to Fauvent still folded, she would have discovered that an elephant was not only a creature of Asia and Africa.

"A family of one," Éponine repeated.

"So that makes two of us," said Enjolras.

Éponine turned to him. "What?"

"We're both orphans, in a way. You lost your family, I lost my friends." He paused, searching for more words to explain what he felt. "Look, there's no shame in being an orphan. Look at Feuilly. He adopted the people as his family, and now you have a chance to do the same."

"Yes, and look where it got him," she snarled. "Dead. His family didn't love him back, or they would've protected him."

"I will be your family. Grantaire, Gavroche, and I."

"It's not the same." She huddled her arms defensively. "Your family is far away, but at least they're rich and they care for you."

"But they'd denounce me in a heartbeat if they knew what I've done. Treason? Sedition? Inciting rebellion, openly promoting the violent overthrow of the state? I can't ever go back to them, 'Ponine. If I did, I wouldn't be able to hide my actions and beliefs, and furthermore, I wouldn't want to. My friends, on the other hand, were like brothers to me, my second family away from home. They were your brothers too. They loved me unconditionally, and they always had my back." He sighed as if he now carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. "Éponine, I can't get through this without you. I have to live in order to fight another day, but I'm afraid that without you I won't be able to keep that promise to myself. We need each other, 'Ponine. You're the only one who understands what I'm going through."

"You're asking the wrong woman, m'sieur," Éponine laughed drily. "I can't be anyone's shoulder to cry on. I can barely take care of myself."

"Nonsense," Enjolras declared emphatically. "You took care of yourself and Azelma for years when your parents neglected you. You're the bravest and strongest woman I've ever known. And sure, you're a little bit obsessive, a little bit crazy, but so am I. We complement each other. It's crazy people who change the world. And if the world around us is crazy, then maybe we're the only ones who are sane."

"Us and Grantaire," Éponine said, smiling wryly.

"And it won't be us against the world. That's a childish romantic fantasy, a thing that people say. I don't see what's so romantic about being in a constant battle against something much bigger and stronger than you. We have Monsieur Fauchelevent. He will be the loving...wealthy father you never had. You will have gained not only a husband, but a father and sister as well."

Éponine froze. It was the first time either of them had spoken of marriage. It was the first time they had even thought of marriage, at least to each other. Éponine had fantasized about her wedding to Marius in her darkest nights, and Enjolras thought of marriage as a social necessity, but one for other people, not him. But both their hearts jumped as they realized exactly what Enjolras had just proposed.

"I can't get married now, m'sieur. Not so soon after all those men died. It would be cruel to Cosette, because her fiancé is dead and you're still here."

"You don't owe Cosette anything," Enjolras said firmly. "It's not your fault that you were made to bully her as a child. You are entitled to happiness, and Cosette will just have to learn to wait a little longer. She is still hardly more than a child, after all. She has plenty of time."

"She's the same age as me," Éponine noted. "Sixteen."

"Yes, but you are far more mature. I was always more mature than those around me, and I offended many adults when I tried to speak with them as an equal. No one who has made it through her first love alive can be considered a child any more."

Éponine smiled warmly up at him. Enjolras could be a drill sergeant at times, to be sure, but all the while he made you feel as if he'd take a bullet for you. It was a rare combination, one to be highly valued in a leader. And if he was that selfless towards friends and even strangers, just imagine how selfless he would be towards her as his wife! She hardly even dared to think it, after how Marius had broken her heart. Enjolras and Marius weren't different, not really. They were both bourgeois boys who were far above her station and whose parents wouldn't want them to give her the time of day, much less a lifetime. And yet, looking into those pale blue eyes, Éponine understood why Marius had fallen in love with Cosette. Because she was pure, and beautiful, and because at a single glance she radiated light and hope. The difference was, Enjolras actually talked about those things, and tried to make them happen for other people. She trusted him utterly and completely. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.

They leaned into each other, and kissed again for the first time.

* * *

Cosette arrived at Gillenormand's house late that morning, around eleven o'clock. First she had to go home to change into clothes that weren't soiled by sewer water. Her expression sent the silent message to Toussaint, 'Don't ask'.

The carriage ride was by far the worst one of her life. This may have had to do with the fact that it was the first time she had ever ridden alone, without her papa. For the first time in her life, she felt completely, acutely alone. She could not even look out the window as she passed by people out walking, bourgeoisie like herself. And now she was on her way to deliver news to an old man that would make him feel as lonely and heartbroken as she felt right now.

Her first impression of Gillenormand's house was that it was vulgar. She could not imagine how a sweet yet fiery boy like Marius had grown up in such a...repressive place. The walls were covered with fleur-de-lis wallpaper, and she felt as if she had entered into the time before the Revolution, and that any of the rooms might contain a guillotine and someone would declare "Off with her head!".

Instead she found Mademoiselle Gillenormand, who was running around like a certain animal with its head cut off, and who welcomed her in. "Come in, mademoiselle," she said as prudishly as she could be when panting for breath. "Do you have any news of my nephew, Marius Pontmercy? My father is worried sick about him."

"That's precisely why I came," said Cosette sadly. "Where is your father? I must speak to him alone in private."

"He's upstairs in his study," said Mademoiselle Gillenormand, pointing. "But wait- before you go, if there is any disturbing news, please leave it with me. I am afraid he would fly into a rage if he learned that anything had happened to his grandson."

"I doubt it," said Cosette bitterly, pushing past her. "Marius told me that his grandfather didn't give a rat's pajamas what happened to him."

"That is not true," Mademoiselle Gillenormand insisted. "My father cares deeply about his only grandson. He would be absolutely devastated if he learned that Marius had... oh, my." She began to wave herself with a fan, as if she were feeling faint.

"Well, be that as it may, I must see him nonetheless. My father told me to stay here until things had quieted down, and I presumed I would be welcome."

"Oh, you must be his fiancee, Euphrasie Fauchelevent?" She clicked her tongue. "Let me tell you from experience, ma amie, you don't want to become an old maid. Your life is over if you're not married by the time you're twenty. It's the curse of women of our status, ma chérie. Fall in love or don't, it doesn't matter, just find yourself someone respectable who will treat you decently and settle down. That's my advice."

She did not realize what she had just assumed.

"Marius is dead," said Cosette flatly, confirming her assumption. "He was killed on the barricade, along with most of his friends. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything more right now." She hung her head in silence.

Suddenly an old man appeared at the top of the stairs. His long white hair was disheveled and his glasses were practically falling off his nose. "Daughter, what is this? What's going on?" he demanded wildly. "You receive a visitor at this time of day and don't even bother to ask me to let her in? Who is this young lady? What does she want? Why am I always the last to know whenever anything happens in this house?"

"Quick," Mademoiselle Gillenormand whispered to Cosette, shielding her from her father's line of vision, "Hide."


	15. This World Will Go On Turning

A/N: Longest chapter yet! I never intended to let it get above 4K words, but all the parts just came together.

* * *

Cosette hated to admit it to herself, but a part of her was glad that she wasn't marrying Marius. The potential in-laws were insufferable. A dodged bullet, really. For one thing, she discovered that Théodule, that awful lancer who had thought it his duty to flirt with her on the night when she found the letter on the garden bench, was Marius' second cousin and dropped by from time to time. And Aunt Gillenormand meddled in everyone's business and was every bit as much of a judgmental spinster as any of the nuns she had met at the convent.

But the grandfather was by far the worst. He was a child trapped inside an old man's body, and the only emotions he knew how to express were glee and rage. She couldn't understand why he hated republicans so much. True, the revolution had imprisoned her father, but the way she understood it, it had done some good things as well- at least once the Terror was over and Napoleon had taken control. It wasn't even republicans that Gillenormand had a problem with- it was young people, young men in particular. Even if he completely disagreed with their philosophy, she thought angrily, he could at least show a little respect for his grandson and his dead friends.

These were the people who had raised her beloved Marius, and now continued to go on living as if the world had not shattered into a million pieces. And to think that she would have eloped with Marius without even meeting these people! No wonder her father had been so vehemently opposed to the wedding. So she would die an old maid. Maybe she would move back to the convent, take the cloth like he always wanted. Well, she hoped he was happy.

It was only after three nights of sleeping in Marius' bed, searching everything he had once touched for a message from his spirit, that Toussaint finally came to get her. The old housekeeper looked pale and clammy as she stood in the doorway, and although the weather was warm, her lips were blue.

"The coast is clear," she told her, as if reading Cosette's mind. "Your father has found a place where he is sure you will be safe. Come with me, and never have anything to do with these people again."

* * *

**Meanwhile**

"Éponine, there's something I feel I must tell you." Enjolras entered the bedchamber and rested his hand on the doorframe. Although it was hardly a nuptial bedchamber, it was certainly...quaint, cozy, welcoming, comfortable.

"Go ahead, 'Jolras. Don't be ashamed of it." She patted the space beside her on the bed.

He scratched the back of his neck and looked away nervously. "I don't take pleasure in...the activities of a nuptial chamber," he said. "I'm telling you because I don't want you to feel cheated out of a loving marriage, or to ever doubt that I love you because I decline your duties as a wife..."

"But how can you possibly know that if you've never made love?"

"How could you have known that you wanted Marius if you never had him?" his razor-sharp letigious tongue retorted. He immediately regretted his faux pas, but luckily, Éponine had the grace and common sense to ignore it. She narrowed her eyes.

"Stop being so evasive, 'Zandre. I know exactly what you mean. You rich boys are always so shy when it comes to fornication. It's not your fault, it's just the way you were raised. And the truth is, I don't really want children. I know that's a terrible thing for a woman to say, but I feel like you'd understand. I don't want to risk my life giving birth to a child. There, I said it, and I feel better getting that off my chest. I've seen too many go that way, and I've seen that having babies makes women miserable. We can adopt, if you want, but..."

"Stop," Enjolras said, his face as red as the flag of his failed revolution. "I understand, 'Ponine, and I respect your choice. It is a great sacrifice on your part, to deny yourself carnal pleasures for my sake, and to risk gossip. Do not think that I take this matter lightly."

"It's no sacrifice," said Éponine flatly. "To be honest, I used to daydream about...doing it with Marius, y'know, on our wedding night, and having his children. I'm not above that. If anyone in this relationship is noble, it's you. But you should know, there are still things we can do to be...intimate without risking babies."

"Like what?" asked Enjolras, utterly confused.

Éponine laughed. "Alexandre, if God intended lovemaking to be solely for the purpose of making little ones, He wouldn't have given us plant fibers to make clothes and sheets."

There was an awkward pause in which Enjolras blushed even more deeply. He wasn't naïve- he knew that women who felt erotically deprived tended to stray from their husbands into the arms of other men. But Éponine wasn't like that. He trusted her completely. He even took a shameful relief in knowing that she would always associate extramarital sex with coercion and would therefore be turned off to it. He curled up next to her and said, "You still don't know why you saved me that night, do you?"

"No," she answered honsetly, circling her arm around his neck. "But I'm glad I did. I don't believe in God, but something, or someone, must have intervened on our behalf."

* * *

**July 14, 1832- Bastille Day**

"M'sieur Fauchelevent?"

"Yes, Éponine? Please, come in."

Éponine stepped into Fauchelevent's office. She had never been in such a nice room in her life. Her first instinct was to hide, afraid that some bourgeois would report her for sneaking into his home. But this was only Fauchelevent, and she already adored him. His warm, soothing smell embraced her as soon as she entered his presence, and all she wanted to do was bury herself in his aged arms.

"M'sieur, I know this is far out of my place to ask, but...do you think...maybe you could take me under your wing? Just for a little while, you know. It's just- ever since I met you, I thought of you like a papa, and it's killing me not to call you Papa right now. And before I get married, I thought I'd like to maybe see what it's like having a papa who cares for me, and who can do fun things with me that I never got to do. I know I haven't got any right, I only met you a few days ago, but M'sieur, it would mean the world to me if you would say yes."

Fauchelevent smiled that tender, glowing smile that made Cosette melt like putty in his hands, and now it worked on Éponine. "Of course I will, Éponine. You have every right, and you had only to ask. In fact, I was just about to make the same proposition. You are about to marry a bourgeois gentleman. It would help if you came from a bourgeois family, would it not?"

"Monsieur, are you offering to...adopt me?"

"Yes, Éponine. You would be entitled to all the financial and legal protections as Cosette. And you are an orphan, so that should make things much less complicated."

Éponine had never been so overcome with joy in all her life. She felt as if she were drowning in gratitude. "Good m'sieur," she whispered, "you come from God in heaven."

Fauchelevent winced, but went on. "If you are to be my daughter, then I must first grant Enjolras my permission to ask your hand in marriage. Bring him to me, and I shall grill him with questions that I have already prepared for Monsieur Pontmercy. But I assure you, this is only a formality. Enjolras is the epitome of a gentleman and I have no doubt that he will pass my cross-examination with flying colors. In fact, to be quite frank, I wish Cosette had found such a man."

Éponine was at a loss for words, so she embraced him. "I don't know what to call you," she said. "At first I thought your name was Fauchelevent, then Enjolras called you Fauvent, and then people just started calling you Monsieur F. But I'm going to call you by the name I heard when I met you first. Pére Nöel. Because that's who you are to me- Father Christmas. The real rich poor man."

The next day, Fauchelevent went to the city registrar's office and signed the papers to adopt the orphan gamine, and Éponine Jondrette, who had once been Éponine Thénardier and was soon to be Éponine Enjolras, became Éponine Fauchelevent. He also arranged for Gavroche and his little brothers to be set up in the home of a childhood friend of Courfeyrac's who lived in Marseille, on the condition that they would be sent to Paris once a year to visit Fauchelevent and his son-in-law Enjolras. "I am too old to begin raising children again," he said.

Éponine felt as if she had fallen in love twice in the past month, with two different men. She had not known it was possible to fall in love with an older man as a father figure, but being with Enjolras had opened her heart to all possibilities. It had never occurred to her that a man could be strong and gentle at the same time, as her father had always told her that sympathy was the same as weakness. But Fauchelevent was- what was that word Azelma had used to describe boys that she liked?- a sweetheart. She often wondered why he was not married- after all, he could have any woman he wanted- but decided not to bring it up because, on reflection, she didn't really want a stepmother. Madame Hucheloup, who came to visit on occasion, was mother enough for her. And she had to admit that she relished the jealous look on Cosette's face whenever she and Papa went to the Luxembourg Gardens together, if only because it meant that Cosette realized what she had with him. "She will just have to learn to share me with you," said Fauchelevent, with a warm smile, and it was her absolute favorite thing to hear from him.

For his own part, Fauchelevent came to love Éponine as well. If Cosette was the sunlight in his life, then Éponine was the moon and stars. The part of him that needed to heal and protect had long been dormant with regards to his increasingly bourgeoisie and independent daughter, so it was quite refreshing to again have someone who needed him, whom he could clean up and watch as she blossomed from an ugly, malnourished child into a well-fed, fashionable, and lovely young woman- and this time around he had some experience with it. True, Enjolras had already done most of the work for him, and Enjolras could never see beauty in anyone unless he had personally scraped away the dirt and grime to reveal what lay underneath. That was the potential he saw in his Patria, and now he saw it being realized in Éponine, to his great and utter joy.

The summer months faded into autumn, and Enjolras went back at the university. Barricades rose and fell, but the requirements for a law degree were constant and unyielding. Enjolras had grown up a bit since the barricades had fallen. He was less idealistic and more practical about achieving his goals, and he didn't seem to think that he was selling out by going on with his life and trying to make something of himself. Éponine wasn't sure if she liked the change, but he didn't seem to be giving up on his ideals anytime soon, and as long as his life wasn't in danger, she was happy. But she missed him, even more than she had when she worked at the cafe and he went off to give speeches and recruit people for the cause. Luckily, it mattered less now, because she had a father.

At first she did not know what to do with her time without any letters to deliver or errands to run. But Fauchelevent showed her the things that bourgeois girls do. They were boring things- knitting, walking through the park, trying on new outfits, reading novels, playing the piano- but they had a certain charm to them. Éponine thought, 'I could get used to this'. Once she even attended a formal reception, and danced with an older gentleman who congratulated her on her engagement. Upon hearing this, she smiled back at her father and said, "It's not official yet."

* * *

"Welcome to my home, Monsieur Enjolras. What is the reason for your visit on this lovely afternoon?" Fauchelevent was pacing slowly about his office, hands behind his back, with a serious look on his face. But Enjolras knew that it was all in good will. Éponine had told him the secret behind the meeting.

"Well, first of all, Monsieur, I must begin by stating most enthusiastically what an honor it is to be welcomed as a guest into your house- "

"Please, Monsieur, dispense with the pleasantries and get to your point. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's small talk." God, he had almost forgotten how good being a mayor had felt. "I understand you have the intention of marrying my daughter."

"Yes, Monsieur. I come humbly to ask for your permission to propose to her."

"Good boy, respecting tradition. I commend you," he said, fully realizing the irony in that staement. Then he stopped pacing and looked Enjolras in the eye. "Just so we are on the same page, which daughter do you mean to wed?"

"Mademoiselle Éponine, of course." Enjolras began to grow impatient. Was this man an idiot, for real?

"Ah, very good. Now, you understand Éponine's situation. She is an orphan who resides in my care by our mutual agreement until such time as she marries or attains majority. Her father was the leader of a notorious gang, and she participated in several of their activities. Does this information deter you or give you second thoughts?"

"No, Monsieur. Éponine and I are in love. I know her history, and her social status is of no importance to me. I would marry her even if she had nothing."

"You are quite confident that she loves you just as much as you love her? Because I don't want to invest into a wedding that isn't going to happen."

"Yes, Monsieur," said Enjolras, sounding surer than he felt. Was it possible that Éponine still carried a flame for Marius after all, one that wouldn't become clear until the wedding day?

"Good. Moving on. Will you pledge to devote the rest of your life to Éponine and any children you may have with her, and to love her unconditionally?"

"That is what a marriage entails, Monsieur, I thought that was common knowledge- "

"It is, yes, of course it is. Will you provide your new family with the stability it needs and deserves, and to shield them from the repurcussions of your political activities?"

Enjolras gulped. It was a loaded question, but he knew he had to be honest. "I will do my best, Monsieur. Éponine knows about my political beliefs and supports my campaigns wholeheartedly. If she agrees to marry me, she knows the risks involved as well as I. The decision is hers and hers alone."

Fauchelevent paused before he spoke again. "Then, Monsieur, you have my permission and my blessing to ask for Éponine's hand in holy matrimony. I understand that you are not a religious man, but Éponine is my daughter and I want her to be married by a priest, under the watchful eye of God. Not to mention it is the only legal way to go about it. I will cover all the costs associated with the ceremony, of course." He held up a hand before Enjolras' objection that he knew was coming. "I know you have funds, but do not speak of it. You need your money to finish law school and I will not let you begin your married life saddled with debt."

"That is well, Monsieur, but you need not pay a dowry. Éponine and I find such practices to be degrading both to the poor and to women, and she is dowry enough herself."

"That she is. Now, bonsoir, and good luck to you."

Enjolras paused as he approached the door. "Monsieur, I must thank you for all you have done for me and Mademoiselle Éponine. Not just today, but for all of it. Without you, we never would have survived the barricade."

Fauchelevent smiled. "You look so much like her," he whispered. "Your eyes, your hair, your fair skin, your smooth features, and most of all your loving spirit... she has returned to me in you."

Enjolras backed away, a little bit frightened. "Monsieur..." True, Éponine looked far less raggedy than she had before, but she could hardly be said to resemble Enjolras. And what did Fauvent mean, she had _returned_ to him? She was only in the next room. Enjolras was used to being thought feminine, but this was taking it a step too far.

"You are just like a copy of her before she lost her beauty. Cosette's mother. Fantine."

Enjolras was more confused than ever, but he swallowed his discomfort yet again. "Monsieur, there's just one more thing I must ask you- "

"Go ahead, son. Anything."

"This business with Montparnasse murdering the Inspector- "

Fauvent put a finger to his mouth. "My lips are sealed," he whispered, leaning forward confidentially. "There is no need to go after him, in my opinion. We can let this one slide. I know well that you are no gang sympathizer, and I will not lose any respect for you if you decline to report the incident."

"But surely- "

"Not another word," Fauvent interrupted. "There has been enough death and suffering recently."

* * *

"Monsieur Enjolras, in the way of a wedding present, I realize I have very little to give. But, by the power vested in me by the National Guard, I would like to present you with this. For your conduct at the barricade in the service of the republic, for valor far above and beyond the call of duty- " He slipped his uniform onto Enjolras' shoulders.

"Thank you, monsieur, but I'm afraid I cannot accept this. It is a symbol of subservience to the monarchy and was worn by the men who killed my friends and tried to kill me as well. I would not feel right about wearing it."

"Nonsense. You absolutely deserve some kind of recognition for your actions, and if the government will not acknowledge your heroism, then I will. Please, take it. It will be insulting to me if you refuse. I am retiring from the Guard anyway, on account of my age, and I want to be assured that someone will step into my shoes when I hand in my notice. Think of it as simply a token from me to you. I trust that you will continue to do everything in your power to advance your cause once you get your law degree, whether working from inside or outside the government. Just promise that you won't put your life on the line again. For my daughter's sake."

"We've been over this before, monsieur. I cannot make that promise. But I will accept your gift, out of respect for you who saved my life and gave Éponine a real father. For that, I cannot thank you enough."

Fauchelevent blushed from head to toe, and shook the younger man's hand as he took him by the shoulder affectionately. "I always wanted Cosette to have an older brother," he said. "Someone who could prepare her for the roughness of life and care for her if anything were to happen to me. In the short time you two have known each other, I am glad that she has found that in you. It has eased the blow of Pontmercy's death quite a bit for her."

"She will love again," Enjolras agreed. "She is stronger than she knows." He was a puzzle, this man, who could go from steely-eyed pragmatism to saintly transcendence and back in less time than it took to turn a phrase. Maybe Fauvent was right, that changing hearts was more important than changing laws. Maybe Enjolras could dedicate his life to trying to understand his father-in-law for the benefit of all humanity.

"I must go now," said Fauchelevent. "Your bride is waiting. Madame Hucheloup has come as well. And hide that uniform away. You don't want Éponine to think you've switched sides." As he closed the door behind him, he winked for the first time since he left the Petit-Picpus, and smiled for the seventh time that very day. "Oh, and by the way, enough of this formality. From now on, you can call me Papa."

"That would be an honor, monsieur," said Enjolras, "but I have a real papa back home, and I haven't written to him in a while."

* * *

The wedding arrangements were made for the cathedral at which Father Mabeuf had been the priest. Mabeuf's right-hand man, who had been promoted after the friar's death, was to perform the ceremony. Originally, Fauvent had suggested as a location the garden behind the house at Rue Plumet, since the police were no longer after him, but then Toussaint pointed out that it was where Marius and Cosette first met each other and holding a wedding there would only drive the stake deeper into the poor girl's heart. Then Éponine had suggested the cathedral, after remembering that it was where she had seen Marius waiting for the Lark. It was the only cathedral she knew of, and she thought that marrying Enjolras there would finally make her feel as if the taste of loving Marius was out of her mouth once and for all. Enjolras agreed, thinking that it must be a wonderfully run cathedral- at least as far as cathedrals went, those symbols of medieval thinking- if such a brave and honorable man had been the officiator. He reflected that he had been the one to send Mabeuf to his death, that it was because of his foolishness that the kindly, gentle old preacher could not be there to perform the ceremony. But Éponine kissed that regret right out of him, reminding him that Mabeuf had planted the flag atop the barricade of his own free will and that Enjolras was far too important to the cause to risk his life over something as trivial as a flag. And to everyone's relief, Mabeuf's replacement turned out to be much like his predecessor- a true man of God.

It was winter now. Hard to believe that it had been nearly a year since Éponine and Enjolras had met under such dire circumstances. And yet, here they were, a year older and wiser too. The engagement had been fantastic, with Fauchelevent and Cosette taking everything in stride. Éponine couldn't believe how helpful Cosette had been. Losing Marius had made her quieter, more melancholy and withdrawn, but also much more mature and philosophical. Enjolras said that a woman whose heart had already been broken once was much more prepared for marriage. (What would he know about it, anyway? thought Cosette.) But although Cosette grieved, she did not wear black. She merely wore a wide, inky ribbon in her hair to acknowledge what might have been.

No one could fill the place in Éponine's heart that Azelma had occupied. But Cosette was proving a natural at being a sister. She was spoiled, but it was something that she was conscious of and tried to make up for in other ways. For the first time, Éponine truly regretted the way she had treated her in Montfermeil. She did not realize that it was due mainly to Fauchelevent's insistence of absolute kindness and forgiveness, and out of affection for him she returned it tenfold.

"I don't understand it," Cosette confessed to Éponine one day. "The sisters always told me that everything was part of God's plan. So why would He bring Marius and me together, only to take him away so soon?"

"I don't know," Éponine confessed. "I doubt if things happen for a reason. Love at first sight isn't all it's cracked up to be. But you'll find someone else. Paris is literally full of eligible bachelors who are passionate about politics. So it's really a fluke that I'm getting married before you." She gulped. "Boys always liked you better, even in Montfermeil. I remember David, the milkman's son, had the biggest crush on you." Here she laughed. "His papa said, 'You're silly, she's just a poor orphan girl, you can do better. Why not set your sights on Éponine Thénardier?' And when David gave me that rose on my birthday- when Maman's back was turned, he asked me to give it to you. That was my first taste of rejection. Nobody forgets that. But remember, no matter who you marry, your first love was your papa. Because no one can forget the way you looked at each other when you walked into the inn on Christmas Eve, even if I was just a little girl, I knew love when I saw it."

She went by Euphrasie these days, now that Marius was no longer there to insist on "Cosette". They all agreed that she had outgrown the doll-like nickname of her childhood days. Fauchelevent even remarked on how wonderful it was to have three children whose names all began with the same letter.

* * *

A/N: One chapter left (in all likelihood)! And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about R!


	16. Love, the Future is Thine

**A/N: Very short epilogue! Just tying up a few loose ends.**

* * *

"Euphrasie, I'm sorry. I know it's hardly an ideal situation for you, but Éponine needs me. She needs us."

"I understand, Papa." She sniffled and looked away. "This is God's plan. He's punishing me for being selfish with you and I've already accepted that."

"No, Cos- Euphrasie, you mustn't think things like that," he said, enveloping her shoulders and wondering what failure it had been on his part to teach her to blame herself for other people's problems. It must have been the nuns' fault, he thought bitterly. "God would never punish you because you have done nothing wrong. You have been nothing but selfless ever since I met you."

"That's a lie and you know it," she said. "You're the selfless one. I tried to have you and Marius both. Now I've lost Marius and I'm going to lose you too."

"You won't lose me," he said soothingly. "I'll always be right here, I promise."

"No you won't," said Euphrasie bitterly. "You're not immortal. You don't know when you're going to die."

He was shocked and speechless. This was the first time she had ever spoken thus to him. Less than a year ago, she had accepted his every word as gospel truth. Now, more than when he had read Marius' letter, he truly felt that she was slipping away from him, that he was talking to an adult. A contrary and petulant adult, but an adult nonetheless. Then he reflected that there were some advantages to speaking with adults as opposed to children.

"Euphrasie, my dear, perhaps God is answering your prayers. You always wanted a larger family, someone to play with who was your own age, and now you have both a brother and a sister. It is fitting that you should have a few more years to savor your childhood before you go off and get married. I've accepted that I will lose you someday, as you have accepted that you will lose me. What we get now with each other is a second chance."

"I know, Papa. And I'm sorry. I'll do everything I can to make it up to you, even though I know it'll never be enough."

"Sorry for what? Falling in love? Don't ever apologize for loving, Euphrasie. It is the best and only thing we can do. You think we need a good reason for it? I did not need a reason to love you, the first time I saw you in that awful inn. I just did. That is the only reason God gives us."

"I know, Papa," Euphrasie repeated. "It's just- sometimes I feel as if I didn't deserve it. As if I don't deserve it still."

Fauvent hugged her tighter. He could offer her no satisfying response.

* * *

"Who is it?" asked a gruff voice.

"It's me, Enjolras. May I come in?"

"Go ahead," said the darker-haired man, and the blond entered.

"Grantaire, I need to know honestly that you're not bitter about this wedding. I don't want to just toss you aside, to lose you as a friend. But we can't just pretend like the kiss didn't happen."

"You're the only person I know who would acknowledge that," said Grantaire, as he kneeled down in his room packing his suitcase to prepare for his long trip home. "I was starving, I was drunk, I was exhausted and terrified, I wasn't thinking straight. Obviously. Neither were you. I'm surprised I haven't forgotten about it. In any case, mine was a love that could never be, so it seems senseless to deny you happiness on account of my foolish fantasies. The only decent thing I can do now is get out of your and Ép's lives altogether."

"That's not true, you have so much still to offer us. To offer the world." Enjolras leaned down beside Grantaire and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be a coward about this, R. Don't senselessly sacrifice yourself. There are good reasons for martyrdom, but this is not one of them." Suddenly he had a flashback to all those months ago, when he lectured Éponine about the stupidity of giving up on Marius just because he loved Cosette/Euphrasie. "Stay in Paris. Drop by once in a while. 'Ponine and I would be sad to see you go. This is the city where someone like you can make a difference, can change the course of history. This place will cure you of your cynicism, if you just give it a decade or two. You're the smartest person I know, Grantaire. Don't squander that."

"All right," said Grantaire finally, standing up. "For you, Alexandre, I will." He looked Enjolras squarely in the eye. "Did you know, 'Zandre, that it's a crime in this and almost every other nation, for a grown man to kiss another on the mouth, even if both parties consent? Considered sodomy? I'm no poet, but I am Byronic in my passions, and there are others like me out there. With all your talk of liberty, equality and justice, where is that issue addressed? It's not. We are like women or slaves, without hope of ever being visible, much less free. We are terrified of the light."

"I never saw it that way before," said Enjolras sincerely. "You have opened my eyes, mon ami. I shall look into what you have said... quietly, of course. We have something in common, but not in the way that you think."

"I thought you'd like to know that I'm clean," said Grantaire, as he awkwardly stood up. "Haven't had a sip since we made it out of the sewer. Alcohol tastes disgusting to me now. But I think it damaged my brain permanently. Nothing to be done about it."

"I'm so sorry, Grantaire," said Enjolras, though the remnants of his former self all wanted to say 'I told you so'.

"Éponine is right for you, Enjolras. You're right for her. I would never do anything to separate you two, not after what you've been through together. I was more in love with the idea of you than anything else. I suppose I always understood that, but I never wanted to admit it to myself."

"Good. I'm glad we've come to an understanding. Éponine loves me for the things it feels good to be loved for- my intelligence, my courage, my passion. And I see the things in her that Marius never did. In that way, we complement each other." Here he paused. "Don't think I don't appreciate what you're doing, Grantaire. Congratulations on graduating and your degree, and I hope we meet again soon."

"Just one last kiss," Grantaire whispered. "Be unfaithful to your fiancée. I want to be sober this time. If you will permit it."

"One last kiss," Enjolras agreed softly, locking the door behind them.

* * *

Grantaire was not going to be at the wedding. He disappeared into the vast heart of Paris, determined to do something good in the world. Enjolras did not tell Éponine the reason for his absence, but they both wept individually for the friend who could have been their best man.

Meanwhile, there was also some good news. Fauvent found his long-lost sister, Jeanne Mathieu. It was a total fluke- she happened to be a friend of Madame Hucheloup's who had moved to Paris and remarried shortly after Napoleon took power. Fauvent was quite distracted by this serendipitous turn of events, and was gone for an entire day to go see her and her surviving son and grandchildren. He did not speak of this day to Éponine or even to Euphrasie, but afterwards he wore a smile, and the children did not feel the need to pry for answers.

* * *

Éponine had a love-hate relationship with the bourgeois version of herself. Whereas Euphrasie liked her pale whites and yellows and lavenders, Éponine preferred darker blues and periwinkles to reflect the dark past that she had survived. She even wore a bonnet, which was ridiculous in that there was no practical purpose for shielding skin which had already been tanned far beyond any standards of ladyhood.

"M'sieur, wouldn't you rather have a son than a daughter?" she asked as she climbed a tree in her backyard with surprising agility.

"I daresay no. Girls are much easier. They don't run off to fight on barricades." He chuckled. "Well, most of them don't, anyway." Éponine was slightly jealous that Fauvent finding his sister has stolen some of the thunder from her wedding, but she put it aside because she was happy for him. After all, he had helped her find her brother, so now they had an experience in common.

"Maman said that gentlemen prefer boys because they're more useful," she said. "Isn't that true, M'sieur?"

"First of all, Éponine, if you're to be a lady, call gentlemen 'Monsieur', not 'M'sieur'. But not me, because I am your papa. No, I don't believe that boys are particularly more useful than girls. All I know is that I have two daughters that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world."

"But don't you want Monsieur Enjolras as your son?" she asked. "I thought you loved him."

"I do," said Fauchelevent. "And I am looking forward to having him as a son, just not as the kind you raise alongside your daughters."

He laughed again. Éponine was proud of being able to make Fauchelevent laugh. Behind the dark veil with which she had shrouded herself all those years, there was the dryest sense of humor known to man. Grantaire joked that she liked her humor 'on the rocks'.

"'Ponine," called Euphrasie from inside the house. "The carriage is waiting."

"Well?" said Fauchelevent kindly. "What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing," she said, and kissed him on the forehead. "Now, take my hand, Papa."

* * *

**A/N: R is such a tragic character, isn't he? I don't want people to think I'm homophobic, but I just can't see their relationship working out at all in a canon-era setting.**

**Sorry for the delay in the final chapter! This has been a fun little adventure for me, and I've collected a lot of plot bunnies. So tell me in the reviews what you want me to work on next. I'll probably do a few oneshots and then another serial when I have more time. I could do a Valjean/Fantine AU fic, a modern AU featuring Cosette and Éponine (gen or shippy, depending on where it goes), or a Gone with the Wind piece. Or even a GWTW/Les Mis crossover, if people want it.**


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